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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3242-0.txt b/3242-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e21b115 --- /dev/null +++ b/3242-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11429 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Doctor + A Tale Of The Rockies + +Author: Ralph Connor + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3242] +Last Updated: March 5, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +THE DOCTOR + +A TALE OF THE ROCKIES + + +By Ralph Connor + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I. THE OLD STONE MILL + +II. THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + +III. THE RAISING + +IV. THE DANCE + +V. THE NEW TEACHER + +VI. THE YOUNG DOCTOR + +VII. THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + +VIII. BEN'S GANG + +IX. LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + +X. FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + +XI. IOLA'S CHOICE + +XII. HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + +XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + +XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + +XV. THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + +XVI. THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + +XVII. THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + +XVIII. THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + +XIX. THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + +XX. UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + +XXI. TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + +XXII. THE HEART'S REST + +XXIII. THE LAST CALL + +XXIV. FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + + + +THE DOCTOR + + + + +I + +THE OLD STONE MILL + + +There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. One, +from the sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, flower-decked +banks, wound between snake fences, along which straggled irregular +clumps of hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond +which stretched on one side fields of grain just heading out this bright +June morning, and on the other side a long strip of hay fields of mixed +timothy and red clover, generous of colour and perfume, which ran along +the snake fence till it came to a potato patch which, in turn, led to an +orchard where the lane began to drop down to the Mill valley. + +At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic +aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For there the valley with its +sweet loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the right, +out of an angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the pond which +brimmed gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond the pond a sloping +grassy sward showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the +hither side of the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge, +and at the nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows, +stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard +the shed and barn, all neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left +of the mill, with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond, +wandered off green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the +Mill Creek, foaming as if enraged that it should have been even for a +brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, beyond the +many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream +entered, and maple and beech on the higher levels. That was one way to +the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist or their oats for +old Charley Boyle to grind. + +The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line, +which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path, +sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the +barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech +and maple woods to the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the +right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one +wished to reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill, +with its dam and pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard, +made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of +peace. At least, the woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the +willows fell, found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested +her; the full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours +forth herself on a summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted +her. She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and straight she +stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with features +that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her black hair shot with silver +threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep set, black +and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that +have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens. + +“Ay, it's a bonny spot,” she sighed, her rugged face softening as she +gazed. “It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it.” + +As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of +the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin. + +“Oh, that weary fiddle!” she said with an impatient shake of her head. +But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into tender pity. +“Ah, well, well,” she sighed, “poor man, it is the kind heart he has, +whateffer.” + +She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large +living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that +joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside +the door. “Mercy me!” she cried, “it's time my own work was done. But +I'll just step in and see--” She opened the door leading to the mill and +stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven, +and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his +forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing +a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight. + +“The mill's a-workin', mother,” he cried without stopping his flying +fingers, “and I'm keepin' my eye upon her.” + +She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. “Ay, the mill is +workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking.” + +“Of what then?” he cried cheerily, still playing. + +“It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you.” + +“Wrong, mother,” replied the little man exultant. “Sure you're wrong. +Listen to this. What is it now?” + +“Nonsense,” cried the woman, “how do I know?” + +“But listen, Elsie, darlin',” he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue. +“Don't you mind--” and on he played for a few minutes. “Now you mind, +don't you?” + +“Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?” she cried, +heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance. + +But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly +changing expression, took on a softer look. + +“Ah, there you are,” cried the little man in triumph, “now I know you +remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since--” + He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang +toward her. + +“Go away with you.” She closed the door quickly behind her. “Whisht now! +Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were.” + +“Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's +foolish enough I've been often since. And,” he added with a sigh, +“it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do, +perhaps, what I've not done.” + +“Whisht now, lad,” said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a +great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. “What has come to +you to-day? Go away now to your work,” she added in her former tone, +“there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch the +grist.” + +“And why would you watch the grist, mother?” said a voice from the +mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his +mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set, sombre +eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of +power in every move he made and of passion in every glance. “Indeed, you +will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the +hay in no time. And do you know, mother,” he continued in a tone of +suppressed excitement, “have you heard the big news?” His mother waited. +“He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will +bring him to the raising.” + +A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a +voice calm and steady, “Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll be +late enough before it is in.” + +“Listen to her, Barney,” cried her husband scornfully. “And she'll not +be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by one in the +morning, and sure that's time enough.” + +Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. “We +will have dinner early,” he said, “and I'll just take a turn at the +hay.” + +She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the +scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it to +his father. + +“Give it a turn or two,” he said; “you're better than me at this.” + +“Here then,” replied his father, handing him the violin, “and you're +better at this.” + +“They would not say so to-night, Dad,” replied the lad as he took the +violin from his father's hands, looking it over reverently. In a very +few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for work; and +Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off up the lane. + + + + +II + +THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + + +Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a milk +pail in her hand turned into the mill lane. As she stepped from the +glare and dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as if Nature had +been waiting to find in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in +all her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of that green shady lane +with its sweet fragrance and its fresh beauty. + +It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that +supple form into its firm lines of grace, and to tint those moulded +cheeks with the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle +heads that nodded at her through the snake fence. It had taken sixteen +years of pure-hearted, joyous living to lend those eyes, azure as +the sky above, their brave, clear glance; sixteen years of unsullied +maidenhood to endow her with that divine something of mystery which, +with its shy reserve and fearless trust, awakens reverence and rebukes +impurity as with the vision of God. + +Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in the +sun, revealed a face strong, brave and kind, with just a touch of +pride. The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head and the +carriage of her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted in a smile +over the straight rows of white teeth one forgot the pride and thought +only of the soft persuasive lips. + +As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of +clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, “Oh, this is good!” She peeped +through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red clover. “What +a bed!” she cried; “I believe I'll try it.” Over the fence she sprang, +and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the fragrant blossoms, she +stretched herself at full length upon her back. For some minutes she +lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed looking up through the spreading +thorn tree branches to the blue sky with its floating, fleecy clouds +far overhead. The lazy drone of the bees in the clover beside her, the +languorous summer airs swaying into gentle nodding the timothy stalks +just above her head, and all the soothing sounds of a summer morning, +that many-voiced choir that sings to the great God Nature's glad content +that all is so very good, rested and comforted the girl's heart and +body, making her know as she had not known before how very weary she had +been and how deep an ache her heart had held. + +“Oh, it's good!” she cried again, stretching her hands at full length +above her head. “I wish I could stay for one whole day, just here in the +clover with the bees and the birds and the trees and the clouds and the +blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidying up.” + +As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the +moment the load she had been carrying for many months. For a year +she had tried to fill in the minister's household her mother's place. +Without a day's warning the burden had been laid upon her shoulders, +but with the fine courage that youth and love combine to give, denying +herself even the poor luxury of indulgence of the grief that had fallen +upon her young heart, she had given herself, without thought of anything +heroic in her giving, to the caring for the house and the household, and +the comforting as best she could of her father, suddenly bereft of her +who had been to him not wife alone, but comrade and counsellor as well. +Without a thought, she had at once surrendered all the bright plans that +she, with her mother, had cherished for the cultivation of her varied +talents, and had turned to the dull, monotonous routine of household +duties with never a thought but that she must do it. There was no one +else. + +“I believe I am tired,” she said again aloud; then letting her heart +follow her eyes into and beyond the blue above her, she cried softly, “O +mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and how much you did +for me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear little mother. Oh, if +I had only known! Oh, we were all so thoughtless!” She stretched up +her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. “For your sake, +mother dear,” she whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim +with tears. Not often since that day when they had carried her mother +out from the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging +children, and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself +the while. “I never saw HER cry,” she said to herself, “not once, except +for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to give up,” and +again the tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. “Nonsense,” she cried +impatiently, sitting up straight, “don't be a big, selfish baby. They're +just the dearest little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for +them.” + +Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation. +She locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. “It is a +beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over +the fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!” Once +more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay +again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents. + +“Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink--” + +She sprang up alert and listening. “That is old Charley, I suppose, or +Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe.” She climbed up the conveniently +jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field. + +“It's Barney,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand; “I wonder he +does not cut his fingers.” She sat herself down upon the top rail and +leaned against the stake. + +“My! what a sweep,” she said in admiring tones as the young man swayed +to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, swinging +easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting +sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the clattering +machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the mower's art with +all its rhythmic grace. + +Those were days when men were famous according as they could “cut off +the heels of a rival mower.” There are that grieve that, one by one, +from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily +toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand +and eye, their invincible endurance. But there still offer in life's +stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less +picturesque perhaps, but no less truly testing. + +Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry of +motion. + +“Doesn't he do it well!” said the girl, following with admiring eyes +every movement of his well-poised frame. “How big he is! Why--” and her +blue eyes widened with startled surprise, “he's almost a man!” The tint +of the thistle bloom deepened in her cheek. She glanced down and made +as if to spring to the ground; then settling herself resolutely back +against her fence stake, she exclaimed, “Pshaw! I don't care. He is just +a boy. Anyway, I'm not going to mind Barney Boyle.” + +On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to the +end. + +“Well done!” cried the girl. “You'll be cutting off Long John's heels in +a year or so.” + +“A year or so! If I can't do it to-day I never can. But I don't want to +blow.” + +“You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and +pitching and cradling, and what not.” + +“They are, are they? Who is good enough to waste breath on me?” + +“Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just telling me the other day.” + +“Oh, pshaw! I ran away from their crowd, but that's nothing.” + +“And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go swinging +along?” + +“Do I? That's the only time then.” + +“Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you learn +the scythe?” + +“Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's coming +home to-day.” He glanced at her face quickly as he said this, but her +face showed only a frank pleasure. + +“To-day? Good. Won't your mother be glad?” + +“Yes. And some other people, too,” said Barney. + +“And who, particularly?” + +A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering himself, +“Well, I guess I will, myself, a little. This is the first time he has +ever been away. We never slept a night apart from each other as long +as I can mind till he went to college last year. He used to put his +arm just round me here,” touching his breast. “I'll tell you the first +nights after he went I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick to +find the place empty.” + +“Well,” said the girl doubtfully, “I hope he won't be different. College +does make a difference, you know.” + +“Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out of him. +But he won't be different. Not to us, nor,” he added shyly, “to you.” + +“Oh, to me?” She laughed lightly. “He had better not try any airs with +me.” + +“What would you do?” inquired Barney. “You couldn't take it out of his +hide.” + +“Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down,” she replied with a knowing shake +of her head. + +“Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time,” replied Barney. “But nothing can +change Dick. And I am awful glad he's coming to-day, in time for the +raising, too.” + +“The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And,” regretfully, +“a big supper and a big spree afterwards in the new barn.” + +“Are not you going?” inquired Barney. + +“I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll go. I +don't think father would like me to go, and,”--a pause--“anyway, I don't +think I can get away.” + +“Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children for +once. You would like the raising. It's great fun.” + +“Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get so wild +and yell so.” + +“Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, if you +don't. And Dick is coming that way, too. Alec Murray is to bring him on +his way home from town.” Again Barney glanced keenly at her face, but he +saw only puzzled uncertainty there. + +“Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I must go now.” + +“Wait,” cried Barney, “I'll go with you. We're having dinner early +to-day.” He hung up the scythe in the thorn tree and threw the stone at +the foot. + +“I wish you would promise to come,” he said earnestly. + +“Do you, really?” The blue eyes turned full upon him. + +“Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there.” The +frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to disappoint the blue eyes. +Together in silence they set off down the lane. + +“Well,” she said, resuming their conversation, “I don't think I can go, +but I'll see. You'll be playing for the dancing, I suppose?” + +“No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I may +spell him a little perhaps.” + +“Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great at that, I know.” + +“Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You ought to +see him! I'll make him do the Highland Fling.” + +“Oh, Dick, Dick!” she cried impatiently, “everything is Dick with you.” + +Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, “Yes. I guess +you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next to my mother, +Dick is the finest in all the world.” + +At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene +spread out before them. + +“There,” said Barney, “if I live to be a hundred years, I can't forget +that,” and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he continued, “I tell +you what, with the moon just over the pond there making a track of +light across the pond--” She glanced shyly at him. The sombre eyes were +looking far away. + +“I know,” she said softly; “it must be lovely.” + +Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical +cadence a call long and clear, “Who-o-o-hoo.” + +“That's mother,” said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout. +“You'll be in time for dinner.” + +“Dinner!” she cried with a gasp. “I'll have to get my buttermilk and +other things and hurry home.” And she ran at full speed down the hill +and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too +hot to run. + +“How are you, Mrs. Boyle?” she panted. “I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after +father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know.” + +Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face. + +“Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting you +run.” + +“Letting me!” she laughed defiantly. “Indeed, he had all he could do to +keep up.” + +“And that I had,” said Barney, “and, mother, tell her she must come to +the raising.” + +“And are you not going?” said the older woman. + +“I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me to be +at the dance.” + +“Yes, yes, I know,” quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, “but you might just come +with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will be doing +you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this +afternoon.” + +“Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought.” + +“Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house.” + +Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log +milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool over +the gravelly floor. + +“What a lovely place,” said Margaret, stepping along the foot stones. + +“Ay, it's clean and sweet,” said Mrs. Boyle. “And that is what you most +need with the milk and butter.” + +She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's +pail with buttermilk. + +“Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones.” + +“Och, yes!” said Mrs. Boyle. “There's no recipe at all. It is just this +way--” And she elucidated the mysteries of sconemaking. + +“But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure,” cried Margaret, in +despair. + +“Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner +past, and we will call for you on our way.” + +“Here, lassie,” she cried, “your father will like this. It is only +churned th' day.” She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen cloth, +laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket. + +“Good-bye,” said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. “You're far too +kind to me.” + +“Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good girl +you are, and a brave one.” + +“Not very brave, I fear,” replied the girl, as she quickly turned away +and ran up the hill and out of sight. + +“Poor motherless lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with loving +eyes; “it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor man, he can't +see it. Well, well, she has the promise.” + + + + +III + +THE RAISING + + +The building of a bank-barn was a watershed in farm chronology. Toward +that event or from it the years took their flight. For many summers the +big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in a long heap at +the bottom of the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, the +foundation of the bank-barn. During the winter, previous the “timber was +got out.” From the forest trees, maple, beech or elm--for the pine was +long since gone--the main sills, the plates, the posts and cross-beams +were squared and hauled to the site of the new barn. Hither also the +sand from the pit at the big hill, and the stone from the heap at the +bottom of the lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite gone +the lighter lumber--flooring, scantling, sheeting and shingles--were +marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons and +framers appeared and began their work of organising from this mass of +material the structure that was to be at once the pride of the farm and +the symbol of its prosperity. + +From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the +acknowledged, but none the less critical, observation of the immediate +neighbourhood. For instance, it had been a matter of free discussion +whether “them timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't too blamed heavy,” + and it was Jack McKenzie's openly expressed opinion that “one of them +'purline plates' was so all-fired crooked that it would do for both +sides at onct.” But the confidence of the community in Jack Murray, +framer, was sufficiently strong to allay serious forebodings. And by the +time the masons had set firm and solid the many-coloured boulders in +the foundation, the community at large had begun to take interest in the +undertaking. + +The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. It +had the distinction of being, in the words of Jack Murray, framer, +“the biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts.” Indeed, so +magnificent were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who stood just five +feet in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a man of considerable +importance in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an air of +finality, “What! two twenty-foot floors and two thirty-foot mows! It +cawn't be did.” Such was, therefore, the magnitude of the undertaking, +and such the far-famed hospitality of the McLeods, that no man within +the range of the family acquaintance who was not sick, or away from +home, or prevented by some special act of Providence, failed to appear +at the raising that day. + +It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were +already there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. The +varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity. + +“Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle,” said Mr. McLeod, who stood at the +gate receiving his guests. + +“Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy,” shouted Tom Magee, a +big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue twenty years +of life in Canada had failed to impoverish. + +“We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day,” replied the miller, as +with tender care he handed the green bag containing his precious violin +to his wife. + +“No, indeed, Mr. Boyle,” replied Mr. McLeod. “The girls yonder would +hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'll +find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The wife +will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder, eh, +Margaret, lassie?” + +“Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in +order,” replied Mrs. Boyle. + +“Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle,” replied Mr. McLeod. “A girl +with an eye and a chin like that may break through any time, and then +woe betide you.” + +“Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me,” said Margaret, springing +lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the +house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether +bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls +overflowing with life can produce. + +“Come along, Charley,” roared Magee. “We're waitin' to make ye the +boss.” + +“All right, Tom,” replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. “If you +make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold of +the gang. What do you say, men?” + +“Ay, that's it.” “Tom it is.” “Jump in, Tom,” were the answering shouts. + +“Aw now,” said Tom, “there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there. +He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's +the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!” + +There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of +Rory's hair and face. + +“Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee,” said the fiery-headed, +fiery-hearted little Highlander. “When he's wanted, ye'll not find him +far away, I'se warrant ye.” + +There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both +famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at +raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved +by Charley Boyle's ready wit. + +“We'll divide the work, boys,” he said. “Some men do the liftin' and +others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'.” + +A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker +was none too brilliant. + +“All right then, boys,” roared Tom. “Ye'll have to take it. Git togither +an' quit yer blowin'.” He cast an experienced eye over the ground where +the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would seem +wild confusion. + +“Them's the sills,” he cried. “Where's the skids?” + +“Right under yer nose, Tom,” said the framer quietly. + +“Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. +Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up! +Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye! +Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!” Angus was just six +feet four. “Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady! +Cant her over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up +on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her! +Togither-r-r--heave! Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too +rambunctious! Ye'll be afther knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back +a little now! Whoa! How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence? +All right. Now thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin' +down to pick the winners, an a small chance there'll be fer some of +yez.” + +And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the +sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced. + +“Now thin, min fer the bints!” + +The “bents” were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which, +fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the barn. +Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn +floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly +joined to the one previously erected. + +“Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!” admonished Tom. “We don't want +no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a little +later on!” + +In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before +the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places, +but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for +an outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less +sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies interfered very +considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like +galley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they +took it all with good humour, though some few who had the misfortune to +fall specially under his tongue began to show signs that the lash had +bitten into the raw. The timbers of the last bent were specially heavy, +and the men, more or less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring +to their work with the alacrity that Tom deemed suitable. + +“At it, min!” he roared. “Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it +was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now thin! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that +time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what in the +blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees on a cowld +day! Shift over there, will ye!” + +In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same +moment, leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to +sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent +swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men +sprang back from under the huge bent. It was a moment of supreme peril. + +“Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!” howled Tom, “or the hull of +ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes.” + +At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves +upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by others, and the +calamity was averted. + +“Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!” cried Tom. But there was +a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men stand in the +presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was +walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the +building, his face white, his voice shaking. “Give me yer hand, Barney +Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid +Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!” + +Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them +on the back with varied exclamations. “You're the lads!” “Good boys!” + “You're the stuff!” “Put it there!” + +“What are ye doin' to us?” cried Rory at last; “I didn't see anything +happen. Did you, Barney?” + +“We did, though,” answered the crowd. + +For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing +hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had +seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men +had been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again relieved the strain. + +“Did any of you hear the cowbell?” he said. “It strikes me it's not +quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?” + +“Rory and Tom for captains!” cried a voice. + +“Not me, by the powers!” said Tom. + +“Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men.” + +“All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same +place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an' +brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney +there. He's the man, I kin tell ye.” + +This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy. + +“Barney it is!” “Rory and Barney!” they yelled. + +“Me!” cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. “I have never +done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising all my life.” + +There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had +Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and quickness. + +“Carry pins, is it?” said Tom. “Ye can carry yer head level, me boy. So +at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will.” + +“Well then,” cried Barney, “I will, if you give me first choice, and +I'll take Tom here.” + +“Hooray!” yelled Tom, “I'm wid ye.” So it was agreed, and in a few +minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as +last choice. + +“We'll give ye Ben,” said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. “We +don't want to hog on ye too much.” + +“Never you mind, Ben,” said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to +his place among Rory's men. “You'll earn your supper to-day with the +best of them.” + +“If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!” cried Ben, to the huge +delight of the crowd. + +And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there +was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should complete each +its part of the structure first. The main plates, the “purline” plates, +posts and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set securely +in position. The side whose last man was first down from the building +after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a +hundred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off +to “ride” the plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were, +quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men +to be depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The +choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, side. + +“Niver fret, Barney,” cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of +battle was his own man again. “Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, an' +the more air for us the better.” + +Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word. + +“Aren't they splendid!” said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, her +cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. “Oh, if I were +only a boy!” + +“Ay,” said Mrs. Boyle, “ye'd be riding the plate, I doubt.” + +“Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!” answered the girl, with her eyes +upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young captain, whose +rugged face showed pale even at that distance. + +“Now then, men,” cried the framer. “Mind your pins. Are you ready?” + holding his hat high in the air. + +“Ready,” answered Rory. + +Barney nodded. + +“Git then!” he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like hounds +after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the tape, +they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men +possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps, +wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan. + +“Well done, Rory! He's up first!” cried a girl whose brilliant +complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her relationship to +the captain of the north side. + +“Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see,” cried Margaret. “Oh, +Barney, hurry! hurry!” + +“Indeed, he will need to hurry,” cried Rory's sister, mercilessly +exultant. “He's up! He's up!” + +Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had +just “broken it down,” and in half a minute, seized by the men detailed +for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men +with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second half +was making its appearance over the bent, to be seized and placed and +pinned as its mate had been. + +“He's won! He's won!” shrieked Rory's admiring faction. + +“Barney! Barney!” screamed his contingent reproachfully. + +“Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!” + +“Beaten, indeed!” was the scornful reply. “Just wait a minute.” + +“They're at the 'purlines'!” shrieked Rory's sister, and her friends, +proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of expressing +emotion under such circumstances. + +“My!” sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering +unutterable pangs of humiliation. “Some people don't mind making a show +of themselves.” + +“Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?” cried Margaret, to whose eager spirit +Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow. + +But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been +carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of +his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been +making ready the “purlines” and laying the rafters in order so that, +although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once +his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in +more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters +moved to their positions as if by magic. Consequently, though when they +arrived at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his +rafters were lifted almost as one into their places. + +At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been +enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating defeat, +rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a +series of ear-piercing but altogether rapturous shrieks. + +“They're down! They're down!” screamed Margaret, dancing in an ecstasy +of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at braces, slipping, +sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from incredible +distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous shouts of +victory a heart-rending scream rang out, followed by a shuddering groan +and dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped from its +splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and +swinging free, fell crashing through the timbers upon the scurrying, +scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who +was madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by +good fortune against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path +of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking +at last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben +Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment +two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and +screaming and carried to an open grassy spot. After some moments of +confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry after his +horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow +placed thereon, to which Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly +lifted. + +“I'll go wid ye,” said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and hat. + +Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself +together. “Stop a bit, Barney,” he said. He beckoned Rory to his side. +“Tell them,” he said between his gasps, “not to spoil their supper for +me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps I hearned it.” + +“And that you did, lad,” cried Rory. “No man better, and I'll tell +them.” + +The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out +into admiring expletives, “Good boy, Benny!” “Benny's the stuff!” till +finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, “Three cheers +for Benny!” and the feelings of the crowd, held in check for so many +minutes, at length found expression in three times three, and with the +cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his drawn face, poor +Ben, forgetting his agony for the time, was borne away on his three-mile +drive to the doctor. + +The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won. + + + + +IV + +THE DANCE + + +The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' gate. +They were met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, with a group of +girls and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they drove into the +yard they were met at once with eager questions as to the condition and +fate of the unhappy Ben. + +“Ben, is it?” said Tom. “Indeed, it's a hero we've discovered. He stud +it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there are two av thim,” he said, +jerking his thumb toward Barney. “Ye ought to have seen him stand +there houldin' the light an' passin' the doctor sthrings, an' the blood +spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, it's mesilf can't tell +ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by mesilf on the floor on the broad +av me back, an' naither av thim takin' annythin' to do wid me except +to drown me wid watther betune times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the born +doctor, an' so he is,” continued Tom, warming to his theme, “for wid his +hands red wid blood an' his face as white as yer apron, ma'am, niver a +shiver did he give until the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was +sewed. Bedad! there's not a man in the county could do the same.” + +There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts Barney +finally gave it up, and began unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound +of the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the silence there +rose a voice in song to the accompaniment of some stringed instrument. +It was an arresting voice. The group about the horse stood perfectly +still as the voice rose and soared and sank and rose again in an old +familiar plantation air. + +“Who in thunder is that?” cried Barney, turning to his mother. + +But his mother shook her head. “Indeed, I know not, but it's likely yon +strange girl that came out from town with the Murrays.” + +“I know,” cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss of her +head, “Alec told me. She is the girl who has come to take the teacher's +place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her father was +a colonel in the Southern army, California or Virginia or some place, I +don't just remember. Oh! I know all about her, Alec told me,” continued +Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy curls. “And she'll have a +string of hearts dangling to her apron, if she wears one, before the +month is out, so you'd better mind out, Barney.” + +But Barney was not heeding her. “Hush!” he said, holding up his hand, +for again the voice was rising up clear and full into the night silence. +Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till the verse was +finished. + +“She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney,” continued Teenie wickedly. +“You'll just need to take her with you to the Mill.” + +“Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house,” said the +mother, speaking sharply. + +“She has no mother,” said Margaret softly, “and she will need a place.” + +“Yes, that she will,” replied Mrs. Boyle, “and I know very well where +she will be going, too, and you with four little ones to do for, not to +speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot.” Mrs. Boyle was evidently +seriously angered. + +“Man! What a voice!” breathed Barney, and, making fast the horse to the +waggon, he set off for the barn apparently oblivious of all about him. + +“Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows what's in +that lad. But he'll stir the world yit, an' so he will. An' that's what +the ould Doctor said, so it was.” + +When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just finished +her song, and with her guitar still in her hands was idly strumming its +strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as to reveal +the ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous depths of her dark eyes. +It was a face of rare and romantic beauty framed in soft, fluffy, dark +hair, brushed high off the forehead and gathered in a Greek knot at the +back of her head. But besides the beauty of face and eyes, there was +an air of gentle, appealing innocence that awakened the chivalrous +instincts latent in every masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace +that set her in striking contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids +so perfectly able to care for themselves, asking odds of no man. When +the singing ceased Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side, +and, reaching for the violin, said, “Let me spell you a bit, Dad.” + +At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, turned +quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for him, shouting, “Hello! you +old whale, you!” The father hastily pulled his precious violin out of +danger. + +“Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!” said Barney, struggling in his +brother's embrace; “stop it, now!” + +With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard with +an embarrassed, half-shamed, half-indignant laugh. The crowd gathered +near in delighted expectation. There was always something sure to happen +when Dick “got after” his older brother. + +“He won't let me kiss him,” cried Dick pitifully, to the huge enjoyment +of the crowd. + +“It's too bad, Dick,” they cried. + +“So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!” replied Dick, +in a hurt tone. “And me just home, too.” + +“It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a minute,” cried his +sympathisers. + +“I won't either,” cried Dick, preparing to make an attack. + +“Look here, Dick,” cried Barney impatiently, “just quit your nonsense +or I'll throw you on the floor there and sit on you. Besides, you're +spoiling the music.” + +“Well, well, that's so,” said Dick. “So on Miss Lane's account I'll +forbear, provided, that is, she sings again, as, of course, she will.” + +It was Dick's custom to assume command in every company where he found +himself. + +“What is it to be? 'Dixie'?” + +“Yes! Yes!” cried the crowd. “'Dixie.' We'll give you the chorus.” + +After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into +that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney +picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found +her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. +The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as +if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness +and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd +were entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient +for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She +turned to Dick, who had resumed his place beside her. “Who is the man +you wanted so badly to kiss?” she asked quietly. + +“Who?” he cried, so that everyone heard. “What! don't you know? That's +Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your +fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it +Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line.” + +Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and +awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the +block where she had been sitting. + +“You accompany beautifully,” she said in her soft Southern drawl; “it's +in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that.” + +“Oh, pshaw! That's nothing,” said Barney, eager to get back again to +his shadow, “but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing +again.” + +“Certainly,” cried Dick, “she'll sing again. What will you give us now, +white or black?” + +“Plantation, of course,” said Barney brusquely. + +“All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?” cried Dick. + +The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. “Do they all obey +you here?” + +“Ask them.” + +“That's what,” cried Alec Murray, “especially the girls.” + +She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then +turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked +for, “You, too, obey, I see,” she said. + +“Generally--, always when I like,” he replied, continuing to play. + +“Oh, well,” shrugging her shoulders, “I suppose I must then.” And she +began: + + + “The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home.” + + +Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its +dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice +soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello, +supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. +No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves +came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion +and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing +tide of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness +of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of +unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the +spell. As before, silence followed the song. + +“But you did not do your part,” she said, smiling up at him with a very +pretty air of embarrassment. + +“No,” said Dick solemnly, “we didn't dare.” + +“Sing again,” said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse, +and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, “Music, when +it's good, makes him quite batty.” + +But Iola ignored him. “Did you ever hear this?” she said to Barney. She +strummed a few chords on her guitar. “It's only a little baby song, one +my old mammy used to sing.” + + + “Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', + Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. + Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', + So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass. + + CHORUS: + + “Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. + Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! + De angels want you, guess I know, + But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so. + + “Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, + Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, + De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, + Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah. + + “Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? + Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? + But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' + An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'.” + + +A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat +quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain +over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal +to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached +the deep places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some +moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that +Dick released the tension by crying out, “Partners for four-hand reel.” + Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood +waiting for the music. + +“Strike up, Barney,” cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom +he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his +father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were +standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan. + +“Come away,” he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice. + +“Isn't she beautiful?” cried Margaret impulsively. + +“Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!” + +“Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt,” said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a +sharp glance at her son. + +But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away +as in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, for soon +the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream +mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to +Margaret and his mother of his College experiences, but except for an +occasional word with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the +fields and woods that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but +upon that new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon +lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his imagination, where he +must henceforth live and where his work must lie. For the events of the +afternoon had summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but +real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse +the change that had come to him, nor could he account for it. He did not +try to. He lived again those great moments when, having been thrust by +chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, he had swung them +to victory. He remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with which his +faculties had wrought through those few minutes of fierce struggle. +Again he passed through the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding +the light, now assisting with forceps or cord or needle, now sponging +away that ghastly red flow that could not be stemmed. He wondered now at +his self-mastery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, +handing the old doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his +surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the +floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of +anything like elation at the doctor's words, “My boy, you have the nerve +and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you to +be.” + +But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the +interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned +before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, +eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in +the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the +upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all +in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, +vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic +touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which +must henceforth be his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were +the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It +was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, +the girl, her personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a +subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence there +as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from +the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the stream of +heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a voice, +to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove +into the quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of pain that with +the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already detached +from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his +boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring. + +As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon +his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his +brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had +immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, +it is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his +mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his +boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon +this thought his brother's voice broke in. + +“What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?” + +The kindly tone stabbed like a knife. + +“No, no. Nothing, Dick.” + +“Yes, but there is. You're not the same.” At the anxious appeal in the +voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom +he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he +could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his brother. + +“I don't know, Dick--I can't tell you--I don't think I am the same.” A +look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face +turned toward him. + +“Have I done anything, Barney?” said the younger boy, his dismay showing +in his tone. + +“No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you.” He put his hands on +his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed +himself. “It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same.” His +speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: “And whatever comes to +me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you--remember +that, Dick, to you I shall never change.” His breath was coming in quick +gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. +Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken voice, +“You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to +live.” + +For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his +shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, “Well, I am +a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, +I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all +the same, Dick,” he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “we must +expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till +the world cracks.” + +After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother +sat together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable +custom. + +“He is looking thin, I am thinking,” said the mother. + +“Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out +of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever.” + +“That was a fine work of yours with the doctor.” The indifferent tone +did not deceive her son for a moment. + +“Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There +were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I +just did what I could.” The mother nodded slightly. + +“You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing +something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby.” + +“He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, +man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a +slip or a stop.” He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away +for some moments. “Yes, fine! Splendid!” he continued as in a dream. +“And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I +see now--mother, I'm going to be a doctor.” + +His mother stood and faced him. “A doctor? You?” + +The sharp tone recalled her son. + +“Yes, me. Why not?” + +“And Richard?” + +Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long +ago when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his as +they set forth to school for the first time, said, “Take care of your +brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge.” That very day and many +a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought for him, had pulled +him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and reckless +spirit were frequently plunging him, but never once had he consciously +failed in the trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed exceptional +brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, the mother +and the older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, the +brother accepting as his part the life of plodding obscurity in order +that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and +college could do for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the +mother had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's +lips the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was +demanding, she had drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus +to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, amounting +to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself +an ambition whose realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney +needed, therefore, no explanation of his mother's cry of dismay, almost +of horror. He was quick with his answer. + +“Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course nothing +must stop Dick. I can wait--but I am going to be a doctor.” + +The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its +firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly, “Ay, I doubt you will.” Then +she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, “And what for +should you not?” + +“Thank you, mother,” said her son humbly, “and never fear we'll stand by +Dick.” + +Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood +watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, +she said aloud: “Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the +nerve and the fingers whatever.” Then after a pause she added: “And he +will not fail the laddie, I warrant.” + + + + +V + +THE NEW TEACHER + + +The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her +beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy +womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the +fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of +her face, so much so that little Ruby Ross was heard to say: “And do you +know, mother, she smiles with her nose!” The almost timid appeal in her +gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of +her appealing gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud command +due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling race. +But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon +sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, +based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public opinion, and +hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in +the presence of the great if somewhat vague public which at times she +individualized, as she became familiar with her pupils, in the person of +father or mother or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous +skill she played this string, albeit occasionally she struck a false +note. + +“What would your father think, Lincoln?” she inquired reproachfully of +little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down Easterner, by name +Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, “Maine Jabe,” for his +fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. “What would your +father think if he saw you act so rudely?” + +“Dad wouldn't care a dang.” + +Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover. + +“Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?” + +Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. +He hung his head in blushing silence. + +“Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman +if you tried hard.” A new idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch of +hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one +visibly present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good +opinion he must win. + +The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. +The day would surely come when before the eyes of the public they would +parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready. + +But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This +principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature of the +reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably +closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To +recite before the teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth +considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear +the teacher sing to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of +bliss. It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, but an hour +of training as well. She initiated them into the mysteries of deep +breathing, chest tones, phrasing, and expression, and such was their +absorbing interest in and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks +truly remarkable results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably +concluded with a plantation song from the teacher; and with her +memory-gates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all +her soul in her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, +laughterful, or tear-choked, according to her mood and song. + +It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on +his way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of +movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to +old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be +in the store: + +“Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I +couldn't git my team to move past that there door!” + +“What's matter, Mr. Young?” + +“Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know +there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession blockin' +that there road in front of the school!” + +“Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?” inquired old +Hector, in anxious surprise. + +“Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one 'time +to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to be the +dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she +ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's +like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's bosom!” + +“That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind +paying a little extra school rate now,” said Hector, with a shrewd +twinkle in his eye. + +“Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to the +trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song +again!” + +In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher +introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all else +failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the +individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of +one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in the +business of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went +on each misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked +down upon the blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like +manner recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour +of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, +persisted in robbing the school of its hour of delight. In the case of +Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, +the minister's son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract +a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, +peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a +great mathematician. At first he was inclined to despise the teacher, +setting little store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile, for +on the very first day he discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. +Arithmetic was her despair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's +propositions her fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she +threw herself frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings +together they, with Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the +bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession +of helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made +irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little Highland +gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in him. + +But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement +there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of her endowments in +those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility +play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, +do these Divine gifts play than many wise educationists conceive. The +lessons in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere +memory tasks and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay +its ordinary work to listen while the teacher told tales of the brave +days of old to the history class, or transformed the geography lessons +into excursions among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. +But it was in the reading lessons that her artistic talents had full +play. The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents +in the way of expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week of +drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would arrest +the class with the question, “What is the author seeing?” and with the +further question, “How does he try to show it to us?” Reading, to her, +consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of +telling it, and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's +words. + +In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot +might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. +“Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!” she would cry, rubbing +out with infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the horror +of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes of the vague but +terrible “they.” + +Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither +wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. As a +consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both +teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and +so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking public that they faced the +ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or +accomplishment they might possess. + +A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall +wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents and friends +of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. +Of the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother +insisted that a student should show interest in the school, his mother +because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not +because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to +himself, conscious of the need of a reason, because there was nothing +much else to do. The presence of “Maine” Jabe might be taken as the high +water mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new +teacher and her methods. + +The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly +flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the +entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The +arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the +various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. The +algebra class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as +if the hitherto unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the +bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from whom the minister had +asked a demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor +Phoebe's bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in +placing the figure upon the board with the letters designating the +isosceles triangle he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at +the right hand side of the base instead of at its proper place at the +left, as in the book. The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring +the figure upon the board and depending entirely upon her memory, +soon plunged both the minister and herself into confusion hopeless and +complete. But the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, +and, going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as +she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, “Wait, Phoebe. You are quite +confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over.” She +placed the figure upon the board with the designating letters arranged +as in the book. “Now, take your time,” she said with deliberate +emphasis. “Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle.” And thus, with her +feet set firmly upon the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through +that desperate maze of angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and +dexterity that elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the +minister, good man, included. Upon Barney, however, who understood +perfectly what had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleasant +impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical exercises +as a whole awakened within him a feeling of pain which he could not +explain. + +When the reading classes were under review the school passed from +the atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had such +reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar +sing-song monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a +real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or enacted. It was all +simple, natural, and effective. + +The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing +which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full +scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By +some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so +that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the +singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day +was complete. A single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, +hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at +the last, “for the children and the mothers,” the teacher said, one soft +lullaby in which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the +low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their +lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values +that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way. +The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, +parents, and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air +of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small +degree to heighten the whole effect of the day. + +The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret. + +“Isn't she a wonder?” cried Dick. “What has she done to those little +blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!” + +“Yes, yes,” replied the minister, “it is quite surprising, indeed.” + +“In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a +while,” continued Dick. + +“Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself +cleverly.” + +“Yes, indeed,” said Dick, with a slight laugh. “That was a clever bit of +work on the part of the teacher.” + +“Oh, shut up, Dick!” said Barney sharply. + +“Oh, well,” replied Dick, “no one expects mathematics from a girl, +anyway.” + +“Do you hear the conceit of him?” said his mother indignantly, “and +Margaret there can show all of you the way.” + +“Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever +you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link Young was +quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his +life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates.” + +“We will just wait a year,” said his mother. “It is a new broom that +sweeps clean.” + +“Now, mother, you are too hard to please.” + +“Perhaps,” she replied, grimly closing her lips. + +As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently +been pondering Dick's words, said, “Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a +delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And +after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to +read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would +seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take +Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance.” + At which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing +had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater +poignancy. + +But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, +at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the +trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon +the sole qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It +was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing +of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were +moved to immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part +to leave the matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands, +however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business +when, there and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, +although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid +in the section before. + + + + +VI + +THE YOUNG DOCTOR + + +Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a +square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge +and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of +character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which +he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He +would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult +the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy +interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, +with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose +briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and +asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an +hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when +the boy refused it. + +“What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his only +son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. +Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my +boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But--” Here the doctor +snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. “Confound +these foggy nights! I'll put you through.” + +“I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll stay at home.” + +“What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy. + +“I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?” + +“No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded fool and work up +by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the +last year, when he must attend college.” + +“I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws. + +The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like +a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if I +don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.” + The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched. + +“Oh, you can!” he cried impulsively, “and I'll be awfully thankful. You +can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you +have time.” His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a +favour. + +The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first +time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of +study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he +waved his hand toward his library. + +“Now, there are my books,” he cried; “use them and ask me what you will. +It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's +help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers +and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The +physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He guesses +and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing +and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!” Here the +doctor rose and began to pace the floor. “There's no guess in the knife +point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at +that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the +physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the +postmortem”--here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice +almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy--“at the post-mortem the +knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery +was made too late.” These were the days before appendicitis became +fashionable. “Now, listen to me,” continued the doctor, even more +impressively, “I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment +might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long, +the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of +weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great +surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these,” and he held +up a coarse, heavy hand; “I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought +me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which +settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the +nerve--plenty of men have that--but you've also got the fingers, which +few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical +ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great surgeon! +But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink +bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!” + he cried, waving his great hands. “And remember!”--here his voice took +a solemn tone--“let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the +women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind, +disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the +finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till +you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time +at your command.” At these words the boy's face, which had caught the +light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell. + +“Well, what now?” cried the doctor, reading his face like a book. + +“I have no right to take your books or your time.” + +The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced +him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly +regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes +softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder. + +“Now, by the Lord that made you and me!” he said, “we were meant for a +team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay.” The +boy's face brightened. + +“How?” he cried eagerly. + +“We'll change work.” The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. “I want +fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled.” + +“I'll do it!” cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his +face. At last he saw his path. + +“Here,” said the doctor, taking down a book, “here's your Gray.” And +turning the leaves, “Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And +here's the treatment,” pulling down another book and turning to a page, +“Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it, +anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs three things, cleanliness, +good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that +Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, +grind you, and you'll go for your first examination next spring.” + +“Next spring!” cried Barney, aghast, “not for three years.” + +“Three years!” snorted the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! You can do this +first examination by next spring.” + +“Yes. I could do it,” said Barney slowly. + +The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face. + +“But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college.” + +“Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?” + +The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in +its cracks and canyons. + +“Because--well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful +clever.” Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. “Mother +wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after a pause, “I do, too.” + +The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few +minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. “I +understand, boy,” he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender +tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want, +but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife.” + +The boy went home to his mother in high exultation. + +“The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. “He is +going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, +good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get +good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than +I can tell.” + +“Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. How many has she +now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?” + +“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.” + +“Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow +the figure to remain at that.” + +“Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking with the +confidence of intimate knowledge. + +“Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a question whether it's +worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept +the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive +tree.” + +“Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.” + +“Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific +Mrs. Fallows!” + +“Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't talk +foolishly.” + +“But you said four, mother.” + +“Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney. + +“Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let us hope she won't get the habit.” + +“But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously, “what's to be done?” + +“Indeed, I can't tell,” said his mother. + +“Listen to me,” cried Dick, “I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the +'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this worthy service. +Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't +you?” + +“We will see,” said the mother quietly; “we will do our best.” + +“In that case the 'food department' is secure,” said Dick; “already I +see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence.” + +It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three +departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making +Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in +Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger +of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular +imagination. + +“Microbes? What's them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously. + +“Very small insects.” + +“Insects? Is it bugs you mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely +hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this +'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to +me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to +'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with bugs, +an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'” + +It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes +was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that +these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles, +that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated +his “good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with +the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain +articles of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results. + +Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that +furnished by the “good cheer” department. This was left entirely +in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the +enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his +mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade +Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other +duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly +with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat +unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more +suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola +and himself in the “good cheer” department and Barney in what he called +the “scavenging” department could achieve, there was still need of +Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest +time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and, +relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, +with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows +household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them. + +Altogether the “young doctor,” as Ben called him, had reason to be proud +of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation +healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few +weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in +his praises of the “young doctor.” It was the “young doctor” who, by +changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which +followed the first dressing. It was the “young doctor” who had changed +the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, bringing ease where +there had been chafing pain. + +“Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want,” was Ben's final conclusion, +“but fer me, the young doctor, sez I.” + + + + +VII + +THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + + +The “good cheer” department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, wrought +profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it no one but +himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent frankness, kept +the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his new +work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new ambitions, the “good +cheer” department was chiefly valued as an important factor in Ben's +progress. To Iola it brought what to her was the breath of life, +admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more than any, +not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what might +be called its by-products. The daily monotony of her household duties +bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though +cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite +abandoned without a sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the +work of the department in the monotony of her life, the companionship +of its members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her +keen sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly +cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra effort +which her membership in the department rendered necessary. + +It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick +with Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at the +Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as +she was about to depart to town for her holidays. + +“I have come to say good-bye,” she announced as she shook hands with +Mrs. Fallows. + +“Good-bye, dear 'eart,” said that lady, throwing up her hands aghast; +“art goin' to leave us fer good?” + +“No, nothing so bad,” said Dick; “only for a few weeks, Mrs. Fallows. +The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees have decided that +they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string on her.” + +“Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' to +leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as +'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more.” + +“I don't wonder,” said Dick. “Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged her, +as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in the +section.'” + +“Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, if I +may.” + +“An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!” said Mrs. Fallows, picking up a +twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the inner +room. “Ther' now,” she continued to Margaret, who was moving about +putting things to rights, “don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I know things +is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things piles up terr'ble, an' +I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to straighten 'em up. Jest +look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' +with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all +I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their +backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the +rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,' +sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' cleverlike, +is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!” she continued in +an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from +the next room. “An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a +sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' a-mutilatin' +of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at more'n my +share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits 'is +hamputation an' 'is splits.” + +“His splints,” cried Margaret; “are they all right now?” + +“Yes. Since the young doctor--that's w'at Benny calls 'im--change +'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young +doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see,” continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, and +again lowering her voice impressively, “yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orful +at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me toes, mother, it's in me +toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' +'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes +right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right +enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e +tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! +an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. +Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say,” and here Mrs. Fallows' +voice dropped quite to a whisper, “as 'ow that keeps 'em sore all the +longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor 'isself, +an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes. +'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. 'Tain't yer toes, +Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite +sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. +'E's a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them +toes buried, if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite +hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez +father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' +rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's boy. +'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as +nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the +feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is +toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's +hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. +'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, +it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in +yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel +the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But +the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd +like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, +that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But +father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind +know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt +w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes, +I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes +in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But +'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind +or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin' +'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes +used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes +is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make 'im +stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't +'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start +that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need +no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes +a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no--' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it +hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't +yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain +jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them +nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them +toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve +feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the +feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's +so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is +gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an' +I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, +well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble +inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem +a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look +a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph +wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll +call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll +say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's +Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know +somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in +father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' sez the doctor, +'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give +that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call +houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed +quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do +along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds +up to the brain, “Toes! Toes! Toes!” an' all 'long that toe line yeh can +git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, +then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' ''Undreds +of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves? +shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite +triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an' heverythin', all +them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not +seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em +all shout “Toes?” W'y don't the brain 'ear “Hankle” or “'Eel”?' Then +the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But +father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I +'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor +up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention +it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr. +Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez +'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble +if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im +thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, +'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels +or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little +'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. +An' I suppose w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of +hankle, or 'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' +'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin' +them toes?'” + +“But,” said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, “I do talk. But poor +Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young lady +come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, +poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first +'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't ever done +talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely +pair they'd make, poor souls.” + +Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by +Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola +reappeared. + +“Well, good-bye,” said Mrs. Fallows. “Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git +back. Good-bye, Miss,” she said to Margaret. “It does seem to give me a +fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights.” + +It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for +bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang. + +“It can't be that I am jealous,” she said. “Of course, she is far more +attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?” She +shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. “Do you know, you are as +mean as you can be,” she said viciously. + +At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing. + +“It's no wonder,” said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, +“it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a +voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too.” + +In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her +hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an +involuntary exclamation of admiration. + +“My! you are lovely!” she cried. “No wonder everyone loves you.” With a +sudden rush of penitent feeling for her “mean thoughts” she put her arms +about Iola and kissed her warmly. + +“Lovely! Nonsense!” she exclaimed, surprised at this display of +affection so unusual for Margaret, “I am not half so lovely as you. When +I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children +to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and +worthless.” + +Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart. + +“Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and +mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you +go the people just fall down and worship you.” As she spoke she let +down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, +a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked +critically at her. + +“You are beautiful,” she said slowly. “Your hair is lovely, and your big +blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. +But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,” + she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, “I can please them in +a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. +But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would +forget me. They wouldn't forget you.” + +“What nonsense!” said Margaret brusquely. “It is not your voice alone; +it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your +manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft +about you.” + +“But the women don't care for me,” said Iola, with the same slow, +thoughtful voice. “If I wanted very much I believe I could make them. +But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me.” + +“Now you're talking nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “You ought to +have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening.” + +“Now,” continued Iola, ignoring her remark, “the women all like you, and +the men, too, in a way.” + +“Don't talk nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “When you're around +the boys don't look at me.” + +“Yes, they do,” said Iola, as if pondering the question. “Ben does.” + +Margaret laughed scornfully. “Ben likes my jelly.” + +“And Dick does,” continued Iola, “and Barney.” Here she shot a keen +glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though +enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over +her fair cheek and down her bare neck. + +“Pshaw!” she cried angrily, “those boys! Of course, they like me. I've +known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with +them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you +know.” + +“Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a +chance to be anything.” + +“Be anything!” cried Margaret hotly. “Why, Dick's going to be a minister +and--” + +“Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But +Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?” + +“Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,” + replied Margaret indignantly. + +“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little +place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir.” + To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the “unheard of.” “And yet,” she +went on, “if he had a chance--” + +But Margaret could bear this no longer. “What are you talking about? +There are plenty of good men who are never heard of.” + +“Oh,” cried Iola quickly, “I didn't mean--of course your father. Well, +your father is a gentle man. But Barney--” + +“Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to +sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night.” + +“Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And +I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear +to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you.” As +she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around +her neck. Margaret relented. + +“Of course I love you,” she said. “There,” kissing her, “good-night. Go +to sleep or you'll lose your beauty.” + +But Iola clung to her. “Good-night, dear Margaret,” she said, her lips +trembling pathetically. “You are the only girl friend I ever had. I +couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me.” + +“I never forget my friends,” cried Margaret gravely. “And I never cease +to love them.” + +“Oh, Margaret!” said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, “don't +turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me.” + +“You little goose,” cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a +child, “of course I will always love you. Good-night now.” She kissed +Iola tenderly. + +“Good-night,” said Iola. “You know this is my last night with you for a +long time.” + +“Not the very last,” said Margaret. “We go to the Mill to-morrow night, +you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have +Ben there for nursing and feeding.” + +Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of +a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of +interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in +what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving +machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's +invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing +machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it. + +Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a +crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only “paying +his board,” as Barney declared, but “earning good wages as well.” + +The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It +was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave +her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she +regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar +pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. +It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting +to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. “Ben needs +you,” he argued. “And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, +weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment +of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. +You must come.” It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious +entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that +finally weighed with her. + +The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old +flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in +the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful +delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall +in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool +air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their +work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big +willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair, +Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, +Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking +in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally +singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or +plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too +sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever +quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be +a “foreign” and “feckless” sort of instrument. But in spite of her there +were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre +eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods +on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern “baby +songs.” + +Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and +love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep +through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms +of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock +at first that he heard the Southern girl with her “foreign instrument” + try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. +Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland +airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took +on a new beauty, but they lost something as well. + +“No one sings them like your mother, Barney,” said Margaret after Dick +had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences, +“and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the +same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things +when your mother sings.” + +“Different how?” said Dick. + +“I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, +just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy +milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink.” + +“I know,” said Barney gravely. “They lose the Scotch with the guitar. +They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind +altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden +rose.” + +“Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother,” cried Dick, “sing us one +now.” + +“Me sing!” cried the mother aghast. “After yon!” nodding toward Iola. +“You would not be shaming your mother, Richard.” + +“Shaming you, indeed!” cried Margaret, indignantly. + +“Do, Mrs. Boyle,” entreated Iola. “I have never heard you sing. Indeed, +I did not know you could sing.” + +Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word. + +“Sing!” cried Dick. “You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor +of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,' +too.” + +“No,” said Barney quietly, “Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother.” And he began +to play that exquisite Highland lament. + +It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl +of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone +touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached +the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin +accompanying. + +Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had +the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of +the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with +a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the +quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As +she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in +her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain +and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her +feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's +face, softened to tears. + +“Oh, that is too lovely!” cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping +her hands. “No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad.” She hid her +face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, “I could never +do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?” + she cried, turning to Barney. + +“It's the moan of the sea,” said Barney gravely. + +“It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside,” said Ben Fallows. +“There hain't no words fer it.” + +“Sing again,” entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her +voice. “Sing just one more.” + +“This one, mother,” said Barney, playing the tune, “your mother used to +sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'.” + + + “How often haunting the highest hilltop, + I scan the ocean thy sail to see; + Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow? + Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me? + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be.” + + +For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music +upon them. + +“One more, mother,” entreated Dick. + +“No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye, +and for Margaret here.” + +Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. “Thank you,” she said, lifting +up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, “you have given me +great pleasure to-night.” + +“Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a +sudden pity for the motherless girl. “And we will be glad to see ye when +ye come back again.” + +For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget +that afternoon. + +“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Dick, striking an attitude, +“though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the +purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived +its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere +of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all +its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be +organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my +humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'.” + +“Aye,” said Barney with prompt heartiness. + +“Me, too,” cried Iola, holding up both hands. + +“Mother, what do you say?” + +“Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world.” + +“And you?” turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown +about her, “how do you vote?” + +“This member needs it too much”--with a somewhat uncertain smile--“to +say anything but 'Aye'.” + +“Then,” said Dick solemnly, “the 'good cheer' department is hereby and +henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the community here +represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in +their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to +this institution will be its highest reward.” + +But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up +for them all in that same department of “good cheer.” + + + + +VIII + +BEN'S GANG + + +The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and +bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the +fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring +grain. + +It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle +boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the +mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little +farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide +a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages, +the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous +binders and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind +something more ambitious. + +“Mother,” said Dick, “did you hear of the new harvesting gang?” + +“And who might they be?” asked his mother, always on the lookout for +some nonsense from her younger son. + +“Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's +starting with us Monday morning.” + +“Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt, +poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself.” + +“Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us. +He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here +says so. And he will keep us busy.” + +“If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some pumpkins +at bindin', I hain't worth my feed.” + +“But, Barney,” remonstrated his mother, “is he fit to go about that +machine? Something might happen the lad.” + +“I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at +hand all the time.” + +“And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You +will only be hurting yourselves.” + +“You watch us, mother,” cried Dick. “We'll be after Ben like a dog after +a coon.” + +“Indeed,” said his mother. “I have heard that it takes four good men to +keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's +Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the +whole four of them.” + +“Huh!” grunted Dick scornfully, “I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison +and that gang of his!” + +“Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours,” + said his mother. + +“It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine +compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me.” + +“Indeed, and you would be the better of it,” replied his mother +compassionately, “with your bones sticking through your skin!” + +It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much +elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into partnership +with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which poor +Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking +in him, he was beginning to aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's +care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had +quickened in Ben new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed, +and it was for Ben's sake more than for their own that the boys +had associated him with them in their venture of taking harvesting +contracts. And as the summer went on they found no reason to regret the +new arrangement. But it was at the expense of long days and hard days +for the two boys following the reaper, and often when the day's work was +done they could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed, +there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal of his brother in weight +and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from +sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, however, found them stiff +and sore, it is true, but full of courage and ready for the renewal +of the long-drawn struggle which was winning for them not only very +substantial financial profits, but also high fame as workers. The end of +the harvest found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit for any call +within the limit of their powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion +of such a call being made upon them. A rainy day found him at the +blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop was full +of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All +odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine weather were on that day +brought to the shop. + +Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a +new interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, there was +a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose +tongue took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain. +Withal, he had a little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, though +conscious of the new interest centring in him, and though visibly +swollen with the importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys, +he was exhibiting a dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for +that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary. + +Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or “Fatty” Morrison, as +he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of “Old King” + Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the +district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering +manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the +“Old King.” But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect +and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy +it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been +entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid +descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of +himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest +and most notable achievement being the “slashing down and tying up” of +a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the “Old King” himself +driving the reaper. + +“Yes, sir!” shouted Sammy. “And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off +that table! You bet!” + +“How many of you?” asked Ben sharply. + +“Just four,” replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected +question. + +“How many shocking?” continued Ben, with a judicial air. + +“Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!” + +“I guess so,” grunted Ben, “from what I've seed.” + +Sam regarded him steadfastly. “And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows, +may I ask?” he inquired with fine scorn. + +“Seed? Seed you bindin', of course.” + +“Well, what are ye hootin' about?” Sam was exceedingly wroth. + +“I hain't been talking much for the last hour.” In moments of excitement +Ben became uncertain of his h's. “I used to talk more when I wasn't so +busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't +had time. When we're on a job,” continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to +listen, “we hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through we don't +feel like it. We don't need, to.” + +A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words. + +“You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers,” said Alec Murray. “There +ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's +work, Ben, ten acres.” + +Ben gave a snort. “Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men.” He had no +love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose +hands he had suffered many things. + +“Two men!” shouted Sammy. “Your gang, I suppose you mean.” + +Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. “Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!” he +cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. “Them's the two, if yeh want to know. +Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to +see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait +to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they +was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there.” Ben threw +his h's recklessly about. “You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never +seed any.” + +At this moment “King” Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop. + +“Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?” he exclaimed. + +Ben grew suddenly quiet. “Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess,” he +growled. + +“What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised,” said the “Old King,” + addressing the crowd generally. + +“Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang,” said his son Sam. + +“Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy.” + +“Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough,” said Sam. He stood in no awe of +his father. + +“Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter, +Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're +glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to +you?” + +“Doin' nothin',” broke in Sam, a little nettled at the “Old King's” + kindly tone toward Ben. “He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout +his gang.” + +“Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers.” + +“But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben blows about.” + +“Well, that would be a little strong,” said the “Old King.” “Why, it +took my four boys a good day to tie up ten acres, Ben.” + +“I'm talkin' 'bout binders,” said Ben, in what could hardly be called a +respectful tone. + +“Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just quit +yer blowin' an' talk sense.” + +“I'm talkin' 'bout binders,” repeated Ben stubbornly. + +“And I tell you, Ben,” replied the “Old King,” with emphasis, “your +boys--and they're good boys, too--can't tie no ten acres in a day. +They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on my west +fifty. If they can do it in a day they can have it.” + +“They wouldn't take it,” answered Ben regretfully. “They can do it, fast +enough.” + +Then the “Old King” quite lost patience. “Now, Ben, shut up! You're a +blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the whole field against $50 that it can't +be done.” + +“I'll take you on that,” said Alec Murray. + +“What?” The “Old King” was nonplussed for a moment. + +“I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it.” + +But the “Old King” was too much of a sport to go back upon his offer. +“It's big odds,” he said. “But I'll stick to it. Though I want to tell +you, there's nearer twelve acres than ten.” + +“I know the field,” said Alec. “But I'm willing to risk it. The winner +pays the wages. How long a day?” continued Alec. + +“Quit at six.” + +“The best part of the day is after that.” + +“Make it eight, then,” said the “Old King.” “And we'll bring it off on +Monday. We're thrashing that day, but the more the merrier.” + +“There's jest one thing,” interposed Ben, “an' that is, the boys mustn't +know about this.” + +“Why not?” said Alec. “They're dead game.” + +“Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im risk +it. He's right careful of that boy.” + +After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were loitering, +after their custom, in the churchyard waiting for the service to begin, +it was generally agreed that the “Old King” with his usual shrewdness +had “put his money on the winning horse.” Even Alec Murray, though +he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom friend, Rory Ross, that he +“guessed his cake was dough, though they would make a pretty big stagger +at it.” + +“If Dick only had Barney's weight,” said Rory, “they would stand a +better chance.” + +“Yes. But Dick tires quicker. An' he'll die before he drops.” + +“But ten acres, Alec! And there's more than ten acres in that field.” + +“I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in the +centre. If I can only get them goin' their best clip--I'll have to work +it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an ambitious +little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The first thing,” continued +Alec, “is to get them a good early start. I'll have a talk with Ben.” + +As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on +Monday morning when Mrs. Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at once +from her bed and called her sons. + +“You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to Morrison's +to-day. Here's Ben with the horses fed.” + +“Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my watch.” + +“No, it's six.” + +Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney +concluded something must be wrong and routed Dick up, and with such good +purpose did they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from the time +the boys were called they were standing in the field waiting for Ben to +begin the day's work. + +After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the field. +“I'm going to shock,” he announced. “They've got men enough up at +the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this field in shock by +to-morrow afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if you hustlers can get +it down by then.” Alec was apparently in great spirits. He brought with +him into the field a breezy air of excitement. + +“Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after you +to-day, remember.” + +“Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?” said Ben, who thoroughly +understood Alec's game. + +“Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump in an' tie a few myself.” + +“Don't you fret yourself,” replied Dick. “If you shock all that's tied +to-day you'll need to hang your shirt on the fence at night.” + +“Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You tie +quicker than him, I hear.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” said Dick modestly, though quite convinced in his +own mind that he could. + +“Dick's a little quicker, ain't he?” said Alec, turning to Barney. + +“Oh, he's quick enough.” + +“Did you never have a tussle?” inquired Alec, snatching up a couple of +sheaves in each arm and setting them in their places in the shock with a +quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others. + +“No,” said Barney shortly. + +“I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself,” he suggested cunningly to +Dick. “When a fellow isn't very strong he's got to be careful.” This +was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to do a man's work in the +field, but he was miserable unless he took first place. + +“Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me,” he said, taking Alec's bait. +“I've worked with him all harvest and I'm alive yet.” Unconsciously +Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney was left +several sheaves behind. + +“He's just foolin' with you, Dick,” jeered Alec. “He wouldn't hurt you +for the world.” + +Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of +superiority now to one and again to the other, he put both boys upon +their mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a racing +pace, though neither would acknowledge that to the other. Alec kept +following them close, almost running for his sheaves, flinging a word of +encouragement now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben as he turned +the corners, and by every means possible keeping the excitement at +the highest point. But he was careful not to overdrive his men. By a +previous arrangement and without serious difficulty he had persuaded +Teenie Ross, who had come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing, +to bring out a lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour they +sat in the long grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch +which Dick at least was beginning to feel in need of. But not a minute +more did Alec allow. + +“I'm going to catch you fellows,” he said, “if I've to take off my shirt +to do it.” + +Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the +grain was heavier than Alec had counted upon, and when the noon hour had +arrived he estimated that the grain was not more than one-third down. A +full hour and a half he allowed his men for rest, cunningly drawing them +off from the crowd of threshers to a quiet place in the orchard where +they could lie down and sleep, waking them when time was up that there +should be no loss of a single precious moment. As they were going out to +the field Alec suggested that instead of coming back for supper at five, +according to the usual custom, they should have it brought to them in +the field. + +“It's a long way up to the house,” he explained, “and the days are +getting short.” And though the boys didn't take very kindly to the +suggestion, neither would think of opposing it. + +But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers +knocked off work for the day and sauntered down to the field where the +reaping was going on, it looked as if the “Old King” were to win his +bet. + +“Keep out of this field!” yelled Alec, as the men drew near; “you're +interferin' with our work. Come, get out!” For the boys had begun to +take it easy and chatting with some of them. + +“Get away from here, I tell you!” cried Alec. “You line up along the +fence and we'll show you how this thing should be done!” + +Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the field. +The long shadows of the evening were falling across the field. The boys +were both showing weariness at every step they took. Alec was at his +wit's end. The grain was all cut, but there was still a large part of it +to bind. He determined to take the boys into his confidence. He knew all +the risk there was in this step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury +to his brother. It was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to +the boys, he told them the issue at stake. + +“Boys,” he said, “I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I don't care a +dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old King' Morrison and I'd like +to see you make a record. You've done a big day's work already, and if +you want to quit I won't say a word.” + +“Quit!” cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. “What time have +we left?” + +“We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven.” + +“Come on then, Barney!” cried Dick. “We're good for an hour, anyway.” + +“I don't know, Dick,” said Barney, hesitating. + +“Come along! I can stand it and I know you can.” And off he set again at +racing pace and making no attempt to hide it. + +In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths apiece, +the two long sides and the two short ends. + +“You can't do it, boys,” said Alec regretfully. “Let 'er go.” + +“Yes, boys,” cried the “Old King,” who, with the crowd, had drawn near, +“you've done a big day's work. You'll hurt yourselves. You've earned +double pay and you'll get it.” + +“Not yet,” cried Dick. “We'll put in the half hour at any rate. Come on, +Barney! Never mind your rake!” + +His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, and +but for his pale face there was no sign of weariness about him. He +flung away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf together, +caught it up, drew, tied, and fastened it as with one single act. + +“We'll show them waltz time, Barney,” he called, springing toward +the next sheaf. “One”--at the word he snatched up and made the band, +“two”--he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at the same time +into shape, “three”--he drew and knotted the band, shoving the end in +with his thumb. After him went Barney. One--two--three! and a sheaf was +done. One--two--three! and so from sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen +minutes to go down the long side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and +sprang to his place at the outer side. + +“Get inside!” shouted Barney, “let me take that swath!” + +“Come along!” replied Dick, tying his sheaf. + +“Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!” At this +Ben gave a yell. + +“They're goin' to do it!” he shouted, stumping around in great +excitement. + +“Double up, Dick!” cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the next and +tying them both together. Dick followed Barney's example, but here his +brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them came the +crowd, Alec leading them, watch in hand, all yelling. + +“Two minutes for that end, boys!” cried Alec, as they reached the +corner. “You're goin' to do it, my hearties! You're goin' to do it!” + They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end. + +“They can't do it, Alec,” said the “Old King.” “They'll hurt themselves. +Call them off!” + +“Are you all right, Dick?” cried Barney, swinging on to the outer swath. + +“All right,” panted his brother, striding in at his side. + +“Come on! We'll do it, then!” replied Barney. + +Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, Barney +gradually gaining by the doubling process. + +“Don't wait for me,” gasped Dick, “if you can go faster!” + +“One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!” cried Alec, as they +reached the last corner. “One minute and a half, and we win!” + +There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, two on +the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves +were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, Barney doubled the +first two, the second two, the third two, and putting the last three +together swung in upon Dick's swath where there were two sheaves left. + +“Don't you touch it!” gasped Dick angrily. + +“How's the time, Alec?” panted Barney. + +“Half a minute.” + +Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, crying, +“Out of the way there!” snatched his band, passing it around the sheaf, +tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his hands on his +knees, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. + +For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's side, and +patting him on the shoulder, said, “Great man, Dick! But I was a fool to +let you!” + +“That's what you were!” cried the “Old King,” slapping Dick on the +back, “but there's the greatest day's work ever done in these parts. +The wheat's yours,” he said, turning to Alec, “but begad! I wish it was +goin' to them that won it!” + +“An' that's where it is going,” said Alec, “every blamed sheaf of it, to +Ben's gang.” + +“We'll take what's coming to us,” said Barney shortly. + +“I told yeh so,” said Ben regretfully. + +“Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?” said Alec, angry +that he should be balked in his good intention to help the boys. + +“We'll take our wages,” repeated Barney in a tone that settled the +controversy. “The wheat is not ours.” + +“Then it ain't mine,” said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how great +peril his $50 had been. + +“Well, boys,” said the “Old King,” “it ain't mine. We'll divide it in +three.” + +“We'll take our wages,” said Barney again, in sullen determination. + +“Confound the boy!” cried the “Old King.” “What'll we do with the wheat? +I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had hard luck this year.” + +“No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!” said Ben, stumping over to Barney's +side. “I stand with the boss. I take my wages.” + +“Well, dog-gone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's two +days' good work there. And the rest we'll give to the church. Good thing +the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!” + +“But,” added the “Old King,” turning to his son Sam, “after this you +crawl into your shell when there's any blowin' bein' done about Ben's +gang.” + + + + +IX + +LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + + +The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the snake +fence massed the clover, red and white. Through the rails peeped the +thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the top rail the +white crest of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze this sweet summer +day. In the clover the bumblebees, the crickets, and the grasshoppers +boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting their joy to be alive in so good a +place and on so good a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, and +all the bluer for the specks of cloud that hung, still-poised like +white-winged birds, white against the blue. Last evening's rain had +washed the world clean. The sky, the air, the flowers, the clover, red +and white, the kindly grass that ran green everywhere under foot, the +dusty road, all were washed clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in +the maples and thorns, the birds, their summer preoccupations forgotten +at the bidding of this new washed day, recalled their spring songs and +poured them forth with fine careless courage. + +In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this +flower-prinked, song-filled, clean washed, grassy lane stepped Dick this +summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the well-trained +athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart makes him merry +music. A clean-looking man was Dick, harmonious with the day and with +the lane down which he stepped. Against the grey of his suit his +hands, his face, and his neck, where the negligee shirt fell away wide, +revealing his strong, full curves spreading to the shoulders, all showed +ruddy brown. He was a man good to look upon, with his springy step, his +tan skin, his clear eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a +soul looked forth clean and unafraid upon God's good world of wholesome +growing things. + +From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his +boyhood's love of the open sky and of all things under it. He had just +come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest in many +ways of the college course. His class had thrust him into a man's place +of leadership in that world where only manhood counts, and he had “made +good.” In the literary, in the gym, on the campus he had made and held +high place, and on the class lists, in spite of his many distractions, +he had ranked a double first. Best of all, it filled him with warm +gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had grudged him any of +his good things. What a decent lot they were! It humbled him to think of +their pride in him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse oblige. + +At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain that +had been running below his consciousness, like the minor strain in rich +music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot Barney +always made him pause to look back upon the old mill in its frame of +beauty. Poor Barney! Twice he had gone down to the exams, and twice he +had failed. Of all in the home circle only Dick could understand the +full bitterness of the cup of humiliation that his brother had put +silently to his lips and drained. To his mother, the failure brought no +surprise, and she would have been glad enough to have him give up “his +notion of being a doctor and be content with the mill.” She had no +ambitions for poor Barney, who was “a quiet lad and well-doing enough,” + an encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch +of genius. She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly +understand how deep the shame had gone into his proud, reserved heart. +His father did not talk about it, but carried him off to look at some +of the mill machinery which had gone wrong, and it was only by a gentler +tone in his voice that Barney knew that his father understood. But Dick, +with his fuller knowledge of college life, realized as none other of +them did the extent of Barney's miserable sense of defeat. + +And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his anew. +The causes of his failure were not far to seek. “He had no chance!” said +Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking with gloomy eyes upon +the scene of beauty before him. Things had changed since old Doctor +Ferguson's time. The scientific basis of medicine was coming to +its place in medical study, and the old doctor's contempt for these +new-fangled notions had wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how +he had gone, hot with indignation for his brother, to the new English +professor in chemistry, whose papers were the terror of all pass men +and, indeed, all honour men who stuck too closely to the text-book. +He remembered the Englishman's drawling contempt as, after looking up +Barney's name and papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, “He +knows nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest +experiment, don't you know.” Poor Barney! the ancient and elementary +chemistry of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remotest affinity +to that which Professor Fish expected. Dick was glad this morning that +he had had sense enough to hold his tongue in the professor's presence. +It comforted him to recall the generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent, +the most brilliant surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name. + +“Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder!” + +“Fish doesn't think so,” Dick had replied. + +“Oh! Fish be hanged!” the doctor had answered, with the fine contempt of +a specialist in practical work for the theorist in medicine. “He has some +idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for not knowing. I don't +say they are not necessary, but useful chiefly for examination purposes. +Send your brother down. Send him down. For if ever I saw an embryonic +surgeon, he's one! When he comes, bring him to me.” + +“He'll come,” Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it was for +his sake Barney had remained grinding at home. + +“And he's going this fall,” said Dick aloud, “or no 'varsity for me.” + He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from his football comrade, +young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney and himself +positions in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, where, by +working overtime, there was a chance of making $100 a month and all +found. “And we'll make it go,” said Dick. “There's $300 apiece for +us, and that's more than we want. Poor old chap!” he continued, musing +aloud, “he'll get his chance at last. Besides, we'll get him away from +that girl, confound her! though I'm afraid it's no use now.” + +A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. “That girl” was +Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark, +with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother +a wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an +understanding of their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, and he +would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, +that had smitten him as he cried, “Oh, Barney! is it possible?” Then, as +Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing, +as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a +gleam of hope, had cried, “We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help +you this summer.” And then again the inevitableness of what had taken +place had come over him at Barney's reply: “But, Dick, I don't want to +get out of it.” At that moment Dick's world changed. No longer was +he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place. In vain Barney, +guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost +piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first +acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter +reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now +that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in +the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair +to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. “It's that +confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got +something diabolically fetching about her.” Then, as if he had gone too +far, he continued, still musing aloud, “She's good enough, I guess, but +not for Barney.” That was one of the bitter things that had survived the +night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal +of high manhood ever since he could think. “But there is no one +good enough for Barney,” he continued, “except--yes--there is +one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney.” As Barney among +men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his +life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying +his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always +come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney +in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of +honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than +anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get +to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love +there. + +It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him +this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the +thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness, +and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made +him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that +feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the +thought of Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her +unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high +spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never +for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should +have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering +of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to +Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With +such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him +go “pay his duty to the minister,” his heart responded with so great a +leap of joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those +about him, sure that they must have noticed. + +And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make +acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered +what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced at +his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She +might come for a little stroll in the woods at the back of the manse, +but he would say nothing to her to-day. He would wait and watch to read +her heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go +on his way. A gleam of white through the snake fence against the pink +of the clover caught his eye. Under the thorn tree--he knew the spot +well--and upon the grass, lay a girl. “By Jove!” he whispered, his heart +stopping, thumping, then rushing, “it is Margaret.” He would creep up +and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was close +to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, the +other flung wide in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing down +upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about +her mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she +was than he had thought! “Poor girl! she has been having a hard time! +It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!” At the +thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity +stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had ever +filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his +brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth and +swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of himself and, +before he knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips. +A long shivering sigh shook her. “Barney,” she murmured, a slight smile +playing about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up +into Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat upright. + +“You! Dick!” she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in her +voice. “You--you dare to--” + +“Yes, Margaret,” said Dick, aghast at what he had done, “I couldn't help +it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and--and I love you so much.” + +“You,” cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. “What +did you say?” + +“I said, Margaret,” he replied, gathering his courage together, “that I +love you so much.” + +“You love me?” she gasped. + +“Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night.” + +“Last night?” she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown pale, +but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before. + +“Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret,” he hurried to say, +“but only last night I found out I might love you. I never let myself +go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney--” At the mention +of his brother's name, the face that had been white with a look almost +of horror flamed quickly with red. “Last night,” continued Dick, +wondering at the change in her, “I found out, and this morning, +Margaret, the whole world is just humming with joy because I know I may +love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined a fellow could +hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do +you knew what I am talking about?” Margaret's face had grown pale and +haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with pity. + +“Yes, Dick,” she said slowly, “I know. I have just been learning.” The +brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of herself. “I know all the +joy and--all the pain.” She stopped short at the look in Dick's face. +The buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. A look of perplexity, +of great fear, and then of desolation, like that on her own face, spread +over his. He knew her too well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned +over to him, still kneeling in the grass. “Oh, Dick, dear!” she cried, +taking his hand in hers with a mother-touch and tone, “must you suffer, +too? Oh, don't say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!” + Her voice rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with +her eyes. + +“Do you say I must?” he answered in a hoarse tone. “I love you with all +my heart.” + +“Oh, don't Dick, dear,” she pleaded, “don't say it!” + +“Yes, I will,” he said, recovering his voice, “because it's true. And +I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself love you. It +was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know.” + +“Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly. + +“I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so for +Barney. But last night”--here a quick flash of joy came into his face at +the memory--“I found out, and this morning I could hardly help shouting +it as I came along to you.” He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took +her hand. “Don't you think, Margaret, you might perhaps some time.” The +piteous entreaty in his voice broke down the girl's proud courage. + +“Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!” she sobbed, “don't! Don't ask me!” Her sobs came +tempestuously. + +He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said, +“Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand that, and--well, +I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get +hold of myself. There now--hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!” He +held her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet. + +At length she drew away, saying, “I don't know why I should act like +this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard +winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it +was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me +horrid,” she went on hurriedly. “I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you. +But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you +that, Dick, no one knows.” She sat up straight, her courage coming back. +“I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware.” + A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint +flush touched her pale cheek. “But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't +we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?” Dick had been looking +at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes a +look of misery that went to the girl's heart. + +“Forget!” he cried. “Tell me how.” + +She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, “Oh, +Dick! must we go on and on like this?” She pressed her hands hard upon +her heart. “There's a sore, sore pain right here,” she said. “Is there +to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years.” She +was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more he caught her in +his strong brown hands. + +“Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. +God--yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He +can't let us go on like this!” + +The words steadied her. + +“I know, Dick,” she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, “there has +been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. He will +help you, too. Come,” she continued, “let us go.” + +“No, sit down and talk,” replied Dick. He looked at his watch. “A +quarter after ten,” he said, in surprise. “Can the whole world change in +one little quarter of an hour?” he asked, looking up at her, “it was ten +when I stopped at the hill.” + +“Come, Dick,” she said again, “we'll talk another time, I can't trust +myself just now. I was going to your mother's.” + +But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him +as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and +he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings. + +“I can't, Margaret,” he said. “You go. Let me fight it out.” + +She knew too well where he was. “No, Dick, I will not leave you here. +Come, do.” She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his +neck and kissed him. “Help me, Dick,” she whispered. + +It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, +and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and +again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, +passionate tones, “I love you! I love you!” For a few moments she +suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him. +Her action recalled him to himself. + +“Forgive me, Margaret,” he cried brokenly, “I'm a great, selfish brute. +I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again, +don't think me quite a cad.” + +He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, +gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the +lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near. + + + + +X + +FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + + +“Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?” asked Dr. Bulling of +Iola. + +They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it +was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. +Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey +corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, +spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious +art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room +stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was +Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends +gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took +it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite +to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the +fireplace that had determined the choice of the room. + +As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden +splendour. + +“Yes, of course,” she cried. + +“And why 'of course'?” inquired the doctor. + +“Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his +gold medal.” + +“And who is that, pray?” + +“Mr. Boyle.” + +“Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have +seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather +crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?” + +“Yes,” replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, “he is from the +country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years ago. So +you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think +you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's +darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as +yet”--this with a little bow to her visitor--“but some day he will be +great. And, besides, he is very nice.” + +“Of that I have no doubt,” said the doctor, “seeing he is a friend of +yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and +will be glad to call for you.” The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of +condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice. + +“You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner +to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going with friends.” + +“Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” There was an +almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the +more sweetly. + +“Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. +In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I +think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.” + +“Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a +saint, isn't she?” + +“A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her +voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest +girl I know.” + +“I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with an air of +dismissing her. + +“Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager +enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years +she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most +wonderful way. Looked after me, too.” + +“Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, sure enough.” + +“Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, +and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.” + +“And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor. + +“Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and, +on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has +been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, +which is not often, and still takes care of me.” + +“Most fortunate young lady she is,” murmured the doctor. + +“So I am going with them,” continued Iola. + +“Then I suppose nobody will see you.” The doctor's tone was quite +gloomy. + +“Why, I love to see all my friends.” + +“It will be the usual thing,” said the doctor, “the same circle crowding +you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you.” + +“That depends on how much you--” cried Iola, throwing a swift smile at +him. + +“How much I want to?” interrupted the doctor eagerly. “You know quite +well I--” + +“How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to +all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How +ever,” she continued, “one can hardly expect to see much of the very +popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up.” + +“Oh, rot!” said the doctor. “I say, can't we get off a little together? +There are nice quiet nooks about the old building.” + +“Oh, doctor, how shocking!” But her eyes belied her voice, and +the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant +convocation day at Trinity. + +The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the +students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean +and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be +the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body +finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was +the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way +of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had +to take part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly +uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some +favourite. At no point was the fervour greater than when Barney was +called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends at the left +of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed +as if the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the +occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties +he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the +perseverance and indomitable courage the young man had shown, and the +singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the +special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence +that pervaded the room was even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers +that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney had +taken his place again among the graduating class. + +Then someone called out, “What's the matter with old Carbuncle?” + eliciting the usual vociferous reply, “He's all right!” + +“By Jove,” said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, “isn't that great? +And the old boy deserves it every bit!” But Margaret made no reply. She +was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in +each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he +noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears. + +“It's all right, little girl,” he whispered, giving her hand a little +pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look in her +eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat. + +On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and +joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the +face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full +of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had +endured for the last three years were quite worth while. + +After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the +little group about Barney. + +“Congratulations, Boyle,” he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of +a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his parchment in his +hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes, “that +was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day.” + +Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's +tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the +familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it +made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed +to be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself +to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation +of him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words +Dr. Bulling took himself off. + +“Brute!” said Barney as the doctor retired. + +“Why, I am sure he seems very nice,” said Iola, raising her eyebrows in +surprise. + +“Nice!” said Barney contemptuously. “If you knew how the men speak of +him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in the +swim, but he's a beast, all the same.” + +“Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!” cried Iola, “for you know he's been a +great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him.” + Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave +Barney, took the sting out of her words. + +Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly +because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own +admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, +who finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness, +carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for +Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of +the afternoon Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and +his little coterie of friends. + +And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against +Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital +staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the +exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into +closer touch with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also +to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical +men in the city. For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost +as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition +of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had +been invited, and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day +to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his +steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and +his large social connection than for his professional standing, had been +invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him +about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner +was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines +abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result that +as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about +Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water +and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention divided +between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with +his friends, sat across the table. As this group became more boisterous, +they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole company. +Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him, +and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became increasingly +offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became more and +more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of +this kind, and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no +means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. +Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was +about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by a look +of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend. + +“Disgusting brute!” said Trent, in a low voice. + +But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. +He had his glass in his hand. + +“Here's to the Lane!” he was saying, “the sweetest little Lane in all +the world!” + +“She's divine!” replied Foxmore. “And what a voice! She'll make Canada +famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?” + +“In church,” replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his +followers. “That's right,” he continued, “heard her sing, set things in +motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her +to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the +city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet little lane it +is,” he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made +Barney grind his teeth in furious rage. + +“That she is,” said Smead enthusiastically, “and thoroughly straight, +too!” + +“Oh,” said Foxmore, “there's no lane but has a turning. And trust +Bulling,” he added coarsely, “for finding it out.” + +“Well,” said Bulling, with a knowing smile, “this little Lane is +straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's lines run +in curves, you know.” And again his wit provoked applauding laughter. +But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice was heard, clear and +cutting. + +“Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!” The words were plainly audible to +every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company. + +“What?” said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not heard +aright. + +“I say you are a cowardly liar!” + +“What the deuce do you mean?” + +“You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I +say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so.” + +For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent. + +“Quite right,” said Trent. “Beastly cad!” + +Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. “You impertinent young cub! What do you +mean?” + +For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and +flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man +was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice. + +“Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!” + +“No hurry about this, boys,” said Bulling quietly; “I'll make him eat +his words before he's half an hour older.” + +Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. “Let me at him. He's a great +knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything about +it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up.” Dick had been 'varsity +champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern +words. + +“Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere +to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it +may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him.” + +Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease +the doctor and to patch up the peace. + +“If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off,” were the doctor's +terms. + +“If he says he lied,” was Barney's condition. + +“Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bulling; “it will not take +more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke.” + +The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive +a heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing of +the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master of +it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, +avoiding and sending in killing blows, till at length bloody, dazed, +panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind +and strength. Opposite him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his +adversary. + +“This is easy, boys,” he smiled. “Now, you young whipper-snapper,” he +continued, addressing Barney, “perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell +you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, I'll send +you to sleep!” As he spoke he closed his teeth with a savage snap. + +“Will you say you're a liar?” said Barney, facing his opponent again, +and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings. + +“Ah, quit it!” said the doctor contemptuously, “Come along, you fool, if +you must have it!” + +Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a +heavy left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, quickly +following with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the +jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the +floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a +dozen men pulled him off. + +“Let him come,” said Bulling, with a laugh, “I've a very fine assortment +of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable terms.” + +Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake +were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and hands. + +“Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, someone,” + said Dr. Trent. “A more cowardly brute I've never seen. You're a +disgrace to the profession, Bulling.” + +“Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent,” said Bulling +cynically. + +But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs +of reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could sit up. +Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory. + +“Here, Boyle,” said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney sat up, +“a little more brandy and water.” + +For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly +about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, “Where is he? +He's not gone?” He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. Treat's +hands and drank it off. “Get me another,” he said. “Is he gone?” he +repeated, making an effort to rise. + +“Never mind, Boyle, he's gone.” + +“Wait till another day, Barney,” entreated Dick. “Never mind to-night.” + +At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud +laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked to the +table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he +stood stretching his arms. + +“Ah, that's better,” he said, and started toward the lavatory, but Dick +clung to him. + +“Barney, listen to me,” he entreated, his voice coming in broken sobs. +“He'll kill you. Let me take your place.” + +“Dick, keep out of it,” said Barney. “Don't worry. He'll hurt me +no more, but he'll say it before I'm done.” And, throwing off the +restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling was +arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he turned around. + +“I'm sorry, Boyle,” he began, “but you brought it on yourself, you +know.” + +Barney walked straight up to him. + +“I didn't hear you say you are a liar.” + +“Look here,” cried Bulling, “haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're +not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!” + +“Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?” + +Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel. + +“I say, boys,” said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, “keep this fool +off. I don't want to kill him.” + +Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney. + +“Now, Boyle, quit it,” said Foxmore. “There's no use, you see.” He laid +his hand on Barney's arm. + +Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, +but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away. + +“Get back!” cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him. +As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of its legs, +swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and, +putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg +free in his hand. + +“You men stand back,” he said in a low voice, “and don't any of you +interfere.” + +Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to +their places, leaving a wide space about him. + +“Good heavens!” said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, “the man is +mad! Call a policeman, some of you.” + +“Drake, lock that door and bring me the key,” said Barney. + +As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling, +the latter's pallor increased. “I take you men to witness,” he said, +appealing to the company, “if murder is done I'm not responsible. I'm +defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to kill.” + +“No, Dr. Bulling,” said Barney, handing his club to Drake, “you won't +strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no more. The boxing +exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no more.” + +The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and +terrible. + +“I'll give you your chance once again,” he said. “Will you say you are a +cowardly liar?” + +Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces, +hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, with an +evident effort at bluster, “Not by a ---- sight! Come on! Take your +medicine!” But the lesson of the last half hour had not been lost on +Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his man, feinting to +draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his antagonist +in such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his wind began +to fail him, and it soon became evident that he could not stand the pace +for very long. + +“You've got him!” cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. “Keep it up, +Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five minutes more!” + +“Quite evident,” echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the change in +the situation. + +Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to +appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath +came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only +hope lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next +minute or accept defeat. Nature was now taking revenge upon him for his +long outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised +and battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly, +without any sign of the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading +his opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had +arrived, and waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing +for Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning +his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back +into the angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and all would +be over. + +“Look out, Barney!” yelled Dick. + +Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and +leaped at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one long arm +forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. “Ha!” he +cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. “Now! +Now! Now!” As he uttered each word between his clenched teeth he shook +the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim +struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now clutching +and clawing at those terrible gripping fingers. His face grew purple; +his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell +to his side. “Keep your hands so,” hissed Barney, loosening his grip to +give him air. “Ha! would you? Don't you move!” gripping him hard again. +“There!” loosening once more, “now, are you a liar? Speak quick!” The +blue lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which the head made the +sign. “Say it again. Are you a liar?” Once more the head nodded and the +lips attempted to speak. “Yes,” said Barney, still through his clenched +teeth, “you are a cowardly liar!” The words came forth with terrible +deliberation. “I could kill you with my hands as you stand. But I won't, +you cur! I'll just do this.” As he spoke he once more tightened his grip +upon the throat and swung his open hand on the livid cheek. + +“For God's sake, Boyle,” cried Foxmore, “let up! That's enough!” + +“Yes, it's enough,” said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious man on +the floor, “it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, when +he uttered that lie,” he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, but that +chilled the hearts of the hearers, “you laughed. You were a beastly cad, +weren't you? Speak!” + +“What? I--I--” gasped Foxmore, backing into the corner. + +“Quick, quick!” cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his toes, +“say it quick!” His fingers were working convulsively. + +“Yes, yes, I was!” cried Foxmore, backing further away behind the +others. + +“Yes,” cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, “you would all of you +laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!” He +walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner +in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. “You're not fit to +live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is safe from you!” His voice +rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of himself. His +ghastly face, bloody and horribly disfigured, made an appalling setting +for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the crowd he walked, gnashing +and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury +of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a +wild beast's lust of blood. Further and further back cowered the group +without a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they. + +“Barney,” said Dick quietly, “come home.” He stopped short, with a +mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few moments he stood silent +looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them rest upon the +doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, without a word, turned +and slowly passed out of the room. + +“Gad!” said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, “if the devil looks +like that I never want to see him.” + + + + +XI + +IOLA'S CHOICE + + +Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes +shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm +light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her +table. She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while +she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that +overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break +and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving +leaves and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How +far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her +first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep +impression upon her heart, was when the men carried out her father in +a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared +veranda, she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the +memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her +soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid +discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first glad +freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her own bread +as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love +and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory +of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, one +face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him brought a +warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature +of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first she +saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the +barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding +about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the +barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while +she sang. At that point it was that life for her began. + +A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music +professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous +delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria. +She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new +powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his +trembling, broken voice, “My dear young lady, the world will listen to +you some day!” That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day +she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen. +Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with +self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical +pupils, for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings +and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to +heart-break with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends--how +she loathed it--of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most +objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes +for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not +only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And +now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand +was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye +falling upon a phrase here and there, “We have succeeded at last--the +Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you only want a chance--here it +is--you can do the part well.” She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she +could do the part. “And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from +accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a +beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will +be gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, +I foresee two golden days in store for me.” She allowed a smile slightly +sarcastic to curl her lips. + +“The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday? +That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made +another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either.” + +For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent +in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The +utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the +other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the +sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths +in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since +her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the +sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the +week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend +its hours quietly enough upon the yacht. + +She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address +written in bold characters. “This is the Duff Charrington invitation, +I suppose,” she said, opening the letter. “Well, she does it nicely, +at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her +inclination.” + +Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down +the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing +near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, +Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their +regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country +seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only +remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must +be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly +well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself +the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear +with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a +little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and +do her will. + +She glanced at the other letters upon the table. “Barney,” she cried, +seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. “Barney, poor old +boy!” A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where +had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had +been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid +triumphs, Barney had not appeared. “Of course, he'll be there,” she +murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could +not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages +to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful +as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled +a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly +shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be +her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek. +Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be +free to study, and--well, it was better to be free till she had made her +name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney +would come to her. + +But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great +love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He +was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she +had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away +from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so +incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had +her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, +a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some +finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks +and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public. +Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her +feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come +what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while +she was provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly +proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor +break. No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, +convenient husband. + +What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to +discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no. +Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall. +During these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her +snatches of his time, she had come to feel with increasing strength that +her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her +successes, she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, +brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her art had brought +her he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued +to be the standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, +his poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions, +and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine +sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of +reverence to the love she bore him. But more than all, it was to Barney +her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its +depth and strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could +not exhaust that deep well. But the question returned, where would +Barney be while she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along +her triumphal way? “Oh, he will wait--we will wait,” she corrected, +shrinking from the heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years +she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that +nothing should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long +cherished and for which she had so greatly endured. + +She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an +approaching delight. + + +“MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you +last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two, +because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night +before last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie +and in the process got rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The +doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at +least in my hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean +life. He should not be allowed to appear with decent people. I have +written to forbid him ever approaching you in public. You will know how +to treat him if he attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business +to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one +but me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of +these people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to +your success. Your great voice needs not their patronage; if so, failure +would be better. When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. +Good-bye. It is hard not to see you. Ever yours, + +“Barney.” + + +Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her +castle in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand. +She read the note hurriedly again. + +“He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling.” She recalled a sentence in the +doctor's letter. “Let no one or nothing keep you from accepting this +invitation.” “He's afraid Barney will keep me back. Nonsense! How stupid +of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He doesn't understand these +things. There has been a horrid row of some kind and now he asks me to +cut Dr. Bulling!” She glanced at Barney's letter. “Well, he doesn't ask +me, but it's all the same--'you will know how to treat him.' He's +too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It would be sheer madness! +Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is +preposterous! I must go! I shall go!” + +Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of +passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry. +It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was +no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so +heart-shaking that after it had passed she was thankful she had been +alone. + +“What's the matter with me?” she asked herself. She did not know that +the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a part +of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of +Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. “What shall I do?” + she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. “Margaret will tell me. No, +she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think it was wicked to +go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about +things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will understand. He has seen more +of this life and--oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick +to see Barney.” She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that +Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note and +she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept the +invitation. “I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's +note. I really had accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements +were all made. I'll write the letters now.” She hastened to burn her +bridges behind her so that retreat might be impossible. “There,” she +cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, “I wish they +were in the box. I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I +cannot let this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney +should not ask it!” A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing her +temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not +force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought to prolong this +mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was +Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. “I'll just go and post these +now,” she said. Hastily she put on her hat and ran down with the +letters, fearing lest the passing of her self-pity might leave her to +face again the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable opposition. + +“There, that's done,” she said to herself, as the lid of the post box +clicked upon her letters. “Oh, I wonder--I wish I hadn't!” What she +had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her +self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable +results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with +the deep-seeing eyes. “He always makes you feel in the wrong,” she said +impatiently. “You can never think what to say. He always seems right, +and,” she added honestly, “he is right generally. Never mind, Dick will +help me.” She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. +Foxmore. + +“Ah, good-morning,” smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white +teeth under his waxed mustache. “And how does the fair Miss Lane find +herself this fine morning?” + +It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which +was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. +Bulling's friends, one of his toadies--and he had a number of them--who +represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort +to repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. +Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his +manner was irresistible with “the sex.” Bulling might hold over him, +by reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field +without handicap and see who would win out! + +“I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon +you this morning.” + +“Oh, indeed. Well--ah--come in.” Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing +of him. It was against this man and his friends that Barney had defended +her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter +of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got +himself seated she was coolly master of herself. + +“Just ran in to give you the great news.” + +“To wit?” + +“Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got it.” + +Iola looked blank. + +“Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?” + Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words. + +“Surrendered? Just what, exactly?” + +“Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the +Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl.” + +“Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? +Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a +pugilistic encounter.” + +“A horse race!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with +this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it.” + +“But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists +were chosen for any other reason than that of merit.” + +In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner. + +“Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things +go.” Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of +this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and +exasperating. “Oh, come, Miss Lane,” he continued, making a desperate +effort to recover his patronizing tone, “you know just what we all think +of your ability.” + +“What do you think of it?” Iola's tone was calmly curious. + +“Why, I think--well--I know you can do the work infinitely better than +Evelyn Redd.” + +“Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me.” + +“No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm +confident it will suit the part.” + +“Thank you so much,” said Iola sweetly; “I am so sorry that Dr. Bulling +should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man.” + +“Oh, that's nothing,” waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self-esteem, “we +enjoyed it.” + +“How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?” + +“Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way,” replied the doctor, +falling into his best professional tone. + +“And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that, +too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it is to +have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the +trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at +all.” Iola's face and smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr. +Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the +subject. + +“Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?” + +“I am really a little uncertain at present,” replied Iola. + +“Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut up, +not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it off.” + +“You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?” + +“Oh, well,” said the doctor, plunging wildly, “I wouldn't put it that +way. But the whole question of the Philharmonic was involved, and this +invitation was a flag of truce, as it were.” + +“Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I cannot +pretend to follow the workings of your mind. But seeing that this +invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort on the part of +Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall decline it.” In spite +of all she could do, Iola could not keep out of her voice a slightly +haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast deserting him. +“And as to the Philharmonic solos,” continued Iola, “if the directors +see fit to make me an offer of the part I shall consider it.” + +“Consider it!” gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl with her +absurd pretensions were given to understand the magnitude of the favour +that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer upon her. He became +brutal. “Well, all I say is that if you know when you are well off, +you'll take this chance.” + +Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. Foxmore +had not thought her so tall. Her face was a shade paler than usual, her +eyes a little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as ever, and with +just a little ring as of steel in it she inquired, “Did you come here +this morning to make this threat, Dr. Foxmore?” + +“I came,” he said bluntly, “to let you know your good fortune and to +warn you not to allow any of your friends to persuade you against your +own best interests.” + +“My friends?” Iola threw her head slightly backward and her tone became +frankly haughty. + +“Oh, I know your friends, and especially--I may as well be plain--that +young medical student, Boyle, don't like Dr. Bulling, and might persuade +you against this yacht trip.” + +Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood without +speaking for a few moments till she was sure her voice was steady. + +“My FRIENDS would never presume to interfere with my choosing.” + +“Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to interfere +once too often for his own good. But he'll probably be more careful in +future.” + +“Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. He +would do what he thought right.” + +“He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with Dr. +Bulling again.” The doctor's tone was insolently sarcastic. + +“Dr. Bulling?” + +“Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling was forced to chastise +him.” + +“Chastise! Mr. Boyle!” cried Iola, her anger throwing her off her guard. +“That is quite impossible, Dr. Foxmore! That could not happen!” + +“But I am telling you it did! I was present and saw it. It was this +way--” + +Iola put up her hand imperiously. “Dr. Foxmore,” she said, recovering +her self-command, “there is no need of words. I tell you it is quite +impossible! It is quite impossible!” + +Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the remaining +shreds of decency in speech. + +“Do you mean to call me a liar?” he shouted. + +“Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me as well?” + +The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the calm, smiling face. + +“I was a fool to come!” he blurted. + +“I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of +returning wisdom.” + +The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further words +strode from the room. + +Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the open +door. “Oh!” she breathed, her hands fiercely clenched, “if I were a +man what a joy it would be just now!” She shut the door and sat down to +think. “I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at once. He'll tell +me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!” For the first time she +saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If she sang in the +Philharmonic it would be by virtue of his good offices and by the +gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for +the part and that it was immeasurably better than Evelyn Redd's counted +not at all. How mean she felt! And yet she must go on with it. She would +not allow anything to stand in the way of her success. This was the +first firm stepping-stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she +would be independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. She would go +on this yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. Bulling, +nor would she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. It +looked terribly like disloyalty to him to associate herself on terms of +friendship with the man who had beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated +herself! But she could not give up her chance. She would explain to +Barney how helpless she was and she would send Dick to him. He would +listen to Dick. + +Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads +making choice of a path that was to lead her far from the faith, the +ideals, the friends she now held most dear. Through all her years she +had been preparing herself for this hour of choice. With her, to desire +greatly was to bend her energies to attain. She would deeply wound the +man who loved her better than his own life; but the moment of choice +found her helpless in the grip of her ambition. And so her choice was +made. + + + + +XII + +HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + + +Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable +as when seen at a distance. The huge bulk of her, the pronouncedly +masculine dress and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its +dark mustache line on the upper lip, all of which at a distance were +calculated to overawe if not to strike terror to the heart of the +beholder, were very considerably softened by the shrewd, kindly twinkle +of the keen grey eyes which a nearer view revealed. Her welcome of Iola +was bluff and hearty, but she was much too busy ordering her forces +and disposing of her impedimenta, for she was her own commodore, to pay +particular attention in the meantime to her guests. The wharf at which +the Petrel was tied was crowded this Saturday afternoon with various +parties of excursionists making for the steamers, ferries, yachts, +and other craft that lay along the water front. Already the Petrel had +hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, was straining upon +her shore lines awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola stood idly gazing +at the shifting scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded on his mission +to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with his usual +smiling assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she noticed +him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of the wharf. Iola's +eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a man pushing his way +through the crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evidently to make +inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered oath, Bulling sprang to the aft +line. + +“Let go that line, Murdoff!” he shouted to the man at the bow. “Look +lively, there!” + +As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making +it imperative that Murdoff should execute his command in the liveliest +manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a space of blue +water between herself and the dock. She was not a moment too soon, for +Barney, having received his direction, was coming at a run, scattering +the crowd to right and left. As he arrived at the dock edge he caught +sight of Iola and Dr. Bulling. He took a step backwards and made as if +to attempt the spring. Iola's cry, “Don't, Barney!” arrested Mrs. Duff +Charrington's attention. + +“What's up?” she shouted. “How's this? We're off! Bulling, what the +deuce--who gave orders?” + +Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have said +herself, completely flabbergasted. At a single glance she took in the +white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white. + +“What's up?” she cried again. “Have you seen a ghost, Miss Lane? You, +too, Bulling?” She glanced back at the clock. “There's someone left +behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's our medallist, isn't it? +Do you know him, Bulling? Shall we go back for him?” + +“No, no! For Heaven's sake, no! He's a madman, quite!” + +“Pardon me, Dr. Bulling,” said Iola, her voice ringing clear and firm in +contrast with Bulling's agitated tone, “he is a friend of mine, a very +dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane.” As she spoke she waved her +hand to Barney, but there was no answering sign. + +“Your friend, is he?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington. “Then doubtless very +sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane? Shall we go back for him?” + +“No, he doesn't want me,” said Iola. + +“Mrs. Charrington,” said Dr. Bulling, “he has a grudge against me +because of a fancied insult.” + +“Ah,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, “I understand. What do you say, Miss +Lane? We can easily go back.” + +“Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola hurriedly; +“he is gone.” + +“As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. I +declare he looks as if he needed bracing up. I shall take the wheel.” + +“Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling disappeared +down the companionway, “that was Mr. Boyle, my friend, and I want you to +think him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't like Dr. Bulling. +He doesn't trust him.” + +“My dear, my dear,” said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, “don't trouble +yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! these +men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear creatures. +But they are just like ourselves, with a little more conceit and +considerably less wit. And they are not really worth all the trouble we +take for them. I must get to know your medallist, my dear. That was a +strong face and an honest face. I have heard John rave about him. John +is my young son, first year in medicine. His judgment, I confess, is not +altogether reliable--worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat as +to that young man's doings when they were initiating him. But I have no +doubt that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite mad about you, +and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my arms +round you as soon as possible.” + +As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff +Charrington, who, with all her sporty manners and masculine ways, was an +honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart. + +“I'm glad now I came,” said Iola gratefully; “I was afraid you +weren't--” She paused abruptly in confusion. + +“Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you.” + +“Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was what +Dr. Bulling--” Again Iola hesitated. + +“Don't bother telling me,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, observing her +confusion. “No doubt Bulling gave you to understand that he worked me +to invite you. Confess now.” There was a shrewd twinkle in her keen grey +eye. “Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, with large possibilities of +self-appreciation. But he had nothing to do with this invitation, though +he flatters himself he had. He's not without ability, but he can't teach +his grandmother to suck eggs. I'll tell you why you are here. I pride +myself upon having an eye for a winner, and I pick you as one, and +that's why you are to sing in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a pretty +voice. She is a niece of a very dear friend, and for a time I thought +she might do. But she has no soul, no passion, and music, like a man, +must have passion. Music without passion is a crime against art. So I +just told Duff, he's chairman, you know, of the Board of Directors, that +she was impossible and that we must have you. I have heard you sing, my +dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat and eye. You +have them all. You have the voice and the temperament and the passion. +You'll be great some day, much greater than I, and, with the hope of +sharing your glory, I have decided to put my money on you.” + +Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, but +Mrs. Duff Charrington waved them aside. + +“Purely selfish,” she said, “purely selfish, my dear. Now don't let +Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner, too. He has force. He'll be +a power in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind of brute, +of course, but he'll succeed, for he has wealth and social prestige, +neither to be sniffed at, my child. But, especially, he has driving +power. But I'll have my eye on him this trip, so enjoy your outing.” + +Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of the +finesse of diplomacy in the manipulation of her company. Her method was +straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent attempts of +Dr. Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure Iola for a +tete-a-tete, she called out across the deck in the ears of the whole +company, “See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying to monopolise our +star. We're out for a good time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane is +not your property. She belongs to us all.” Thenceforth Dr. Bulling, with +what grace he could summon, had to content himself with just so much of +Iola's company as his hostess decided he should have. + +It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a series +of sensations altogether new and delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like +a great white-winged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, the humming +breeze, the swift rush through the parting waves, the sense of buoyant +life with which the yacht seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. She +abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and became the life and soul +of the whole party. And were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two +days' outing would have been for Iola among the happiest experiences +of her life. But Barney's last look across the widening strip of water +pursued her and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more +terrible than rage. Iola shuddered as she recalled it. She read in it +the despair of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, and as the +end of her trip drew near her dread increased. + +Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in the +girl during the short voyage, fail to observe her uneasiness and to +guess the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at the dock, +Iola detected Barney. + +“There he is,” she cried under her breath. + +“My dear,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, “it is not +possible that you are afraid, and of a man! I would give something to +have that feeling. It is many years since a man could inspire me with +any feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. They are really silly +creatures and most helpless. Let me manage him. Introduce him to me and +leave him alone.” + +Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more than +justified. Through the crowd and straight for Iola came Barney, his +face haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever manoeuvre Mrs. +Duff Charrington swung her massive form fair in his path and, turning +suddenly, faced him squarely. Iola seized the moment to present him. +Barney made as if to brush her aside, but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not +of the kind to be lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less by a young +man of Barney's inexperience. + +“Ah, young man,” she exclaimed, “I think I have seen you before.” The +strong grip of her hand and the loud tone of her voice at once arrested +his progress and commanded his attention. “I saw you get your medal +the other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave about you--John +Charrington, you know, medical student, first year. He is something of a +fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of course, won't have noticed him.” + +Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen grey +eyes compelling his attention, then, with an effort, he collected his +wits. + +“Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. Don't +see much of him.” + +“No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The dissecting-room +wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's straight-going, however, but he +can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes considerably, +the Lord pity his patients.” She became aware of a sudden hardening in +Barney's face and a quick flash in his eye. Without turning her head she +knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching Iola from the other side. She +put her hand on Barney's arm. “Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane to my +carriage there? Bulling,” she said, turning sharply upon the doctor, +“will you help Daisy to collect my stuff? I am sure things will be +left on the yacht. There are always some things left. Servants are so +stupid.” There was that in her voice that made Bulling stand sharply at +attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he was leading Iola +and Mrs. Duff Charrington to the waiting carriage. + +“So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we would +have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington as he +closed the carriage door. + +“I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in with +some of your party.” There was war in Barney's tone. + +“Good Heavens, young man!” cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no way +disturbed, “you don't expect to make the world fit in with you or you +with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. But you +will be glad to know that Miss Lane has made us all have a very happy +little holiday.” + +“Of that I am sure,” cried Barney gravely. + +“And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good time.” + +“It is for that some of us have lived.” Barney's deep voice, thrilling +with sad and tender feeling, brought the quick tears to Iola's eyes. +To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even Mrs. Duff +Charrington was touched. She leaned over the carriage door toward him. + +“Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane home to dinner. Come with us.” + +Barney felt the kindly tone. “Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it would give +none of us pleasure, and I have much to do. I am leaving to-morrow for +Baltimore.” + +Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced at her +white face. + +“Young man,” she said sternly, leaning out toward him and looking Barney +in the eyes, “don't be a fool. The man that would, from pique, willingly +hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward.” + +“Mrs. Charrington,” replied Barney in a steady voice, “I have just come +from an operation by which a little girl, an only child, has lost her +arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, but from love. +It is because it is best, that I go to-morrow. Good-bye.” Then turning +to Iola he said, “I shall see you to-night.” He lifted his hat and +turned away. + +“Drive home, Smith,” said Mrs. Charrington sharply; “the others will +find their way.” + +“Take me home,” whispered Iola, with dry lips. + +“Do you love him?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, taking the girl's hand in +hers. + +“Ah, yes. I never knew how much.” + +“Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far and +he is only a man.” Mrs. Duff Charrington's tone did not indicate a high +opinion of the masculine section of humanity. “You'll just come with me +for dinner and then I shall send you home. Thank God, we can still eat.” + +For some minutes they drove along in silence. + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her thought, +“that's a man for you--thinks the whole world moves round the axis of +his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still,” she mused, “a +man isn't everything, although once I--but never mind, there is always a +way of bringing them to time.” + +“You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola; “nothing can ever +change him.” + +“Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the less it is +sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the trouble?” + +“No, I think not,” said Iola softly. + +“Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for words. +If ever you wish to come to me I shall be ready. Now let us dismiss the +thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder digestion, I have +found, and nothing is quite worth that.” + +With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during the +drive and throughout the dinner hour and, indeed, until the moment of +her departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her anxious thoughts, +but with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she succeeded in keeping +them deep in her heart under guard. + +As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night she whispered: + +“Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle anything. Give time a +chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old party.” + +And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon the +advice which suited so thoroughly her own habit of mind. That Barney had +made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She would set herself to +gain time, and yet she was fearful of the issue of the interview before +her. The fear and anxiety which she had been holding down for the last +two hours came over her in floods. As she thought of Barney's last words +she found herself searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which +to brace her strength. If he had only been angry! But that sad, tender +solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, +she knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her. + +A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not +the big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before she +reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As +she entered he arose and stood silent. + +“Barney!” she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no reply. + +“Oh, Barney!” she cried again, her voice quivering, “won't you tell me +to come?” + +“Come,” he said, holding out his arms. + +With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about +his neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her fast, gently +caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew +quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness +and put her away from him. + +“Go and take off your wet things first,” he said. + +“Say you forgive me, Barney,” she whispered, putting her arms again +about his neck. + +“That's not the word,” he replied sadly; “there's nothing to forgive. +Go, now!” + +She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she +could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold him, and, +what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as she +knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had +upon her and she dreaded lest that influence should become dominant in +this hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets, +and according to that reading the issue would be. + +“I will keep him! I will keep him!” she whispered to herself as she tore +off her wet clothing. “What shall I put on?” She could afford to lose +no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose her simplest gown, a +soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show the +superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving her arms bare to the elbow +and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, full curves where +they flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her hair +and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it as the wind and rain had +tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One +glance she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The +dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her cheeks, the +lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the +night-black masses of her hair--this, and that indescribable but +all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass. + +“Ah, God help me!” she cried, clasping her hands high above her head, +and went forth. + +These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain +the mastery over the surging passion that was sweeping like a tempest +through his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; but as his +eyes fell upon her standing in the soft rose-shaded light of the room, +her attitude of mute appeal, the rare, rich loveliness of her face and +form again swept away all the barriers of his control. She took one step +toward him. With a swift movement he covered his face with his hands and +sank to his chair. + +“O God! O God! O God!” he groaned. “And must I lose her!” + +“Why lose me, Barney?” she said, gliding swiftly to him and dropping to +her knees beside him. “Why lose me?” she repeated, taking his head to +her heaving bosom. + +The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. +Not for himself must he think now, but for her. The touch of self makes +weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his +life in that hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her +knees, set her in a chair, and went back to his place. + +“Barney, let me come to you,” she pleaded. “I'm sorry I went--” + +“No,” he said, his voice quiet and steady, “you must stay there. You +must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must.” + +“Barney,” she cried again, “let me explain.” + +“Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people are +nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all that +you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. But +that is all past now.” + +“What is it, Barney?” she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and +despair in the even, quiet tone. + +“It is this,” he replied; “we have come to the end. I must not hold you +any more. For two years I have known. I had not the courage to face it. +But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last two days.” + +“Courage, Barney?” + +“Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what a man +must do. And I must think for you. Our lives are already far apart and I +must not keep you longer.” + +“Oh, Barney!” cried Iola, her voice breaking, “let me come to you! How +can I listen to you saying such terrible things without your arms about +me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!” + +The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince as +from a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if estimating his strength. Dare +he trust himself? It would make the task infinitely harder to have her +near him, to feel the touch of her hands, the pressure of her body. But +he would save her pain. He would help her through this hour of agony. +How great it was he could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat +down beside her, and took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, +she let herself sink down, with muscles relaxed and eyes closed. + +“Now go on, dear,” she whispered. + +“Poor girl! Poor girl!” said Barney, “we have made a great mistake, you +and I. I was not made for you nor you for me.” + +“Why not?” she whispered. + +“Listen to me, darling. Do I love you?” + +“Yes,” she answered softly. + +“With all my heart and soul?” + +“Yes, dear,” she answered again. + +“Better than my own life?” + +“Yes, Barney. Oh, yes,” she replied with a little sob in her voice. + +“Now we will speak simple truth to each other,” said Barney in a tone +solemn as if in prayer, “the truth as in God's sight.” + +She hesitated. “Oh, Barney!” she cried piteously, “must I say all the +truth?” + +“We must, darling. You promise?” + +“Oh-h-h! Yes, I promise.” She flung her arms upward about his neck. “I +know what you will ask.” + +“Listen to me, darling,” he said again, taking down her arms, “this is +what I would say. You have marked out your life. You will follow your +great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you feel you must go. +You love me and you would be my wife, make my home, mother my children +if God should send them to us; but both these things you cannot do, and +meantime you have chosen your great career. Is not this true?” + +“I can't give you up, Barney!” she moaned. + +To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney should +give up his life's work to accompany her in the path she had marked. +Equally to both this would have seemed unworthy of him. + +“Is not this true, Iola?” Barney's voice, in spite of him, grew a little +stern. And though she knew it was at the cost of life she could not deny +it. + +“God gave me the voice, Barney,” she whispered. + +“Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your great +art. So it is better that there should be no bond between us.” He paused +a moment as if to gather his strength together for a supreme effort. +“Iola, when you were a girl I bound you to me. Now you are a woman, I +set you free. I love you, but you are not mine. You are your own.” + +Convulsively she clung to him moaning, “No, no, Barney!” + +“It is the only way.” + +“No, not to-night, Barney!” + +“Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an +appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your life +will be full again of other people and other things.” He hurried his +words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind +from her present pain. “Your Philharmonic will bring you fame. That +means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great +world.” How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had followed +the path she herself had outlined for her feet! He paused, as if to take +breath, then hurried on again as through a task. “And we +will all be proud of you and rejoice in your success and in +your--your--your--happiness.” The voice that had gone so bravely and so +relentlessly through the terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, +but only for an instant. He must think of her. “Dick will be here,” he +went on, “and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me, +it is the best, Iola, and you will say it some day.” + +Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, “No, Barney, you are +not helping me to my best.” + +In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no +answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage. + +“And who,” she cried, “will help me up and take care of me?” + +Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her +against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon +beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire +to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could +he desert her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way +through the world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his +renunciation that had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her +danger. Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything. +All the great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight +behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe. + +“Could you, Iola,” he cried hoarsely, “don't you think you could let me +care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right to guard you? I +can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?” + +Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he +poured forth his soul's desire for her. To work for her, to suffer for +her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her +only for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of his mighty passion, +he poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an inexplicable +psychic law the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The sight of his +weakness brought her strength. For one fleeting moment she allowed her +mind to rest upon the picture his words made of a home, made rich with +the love of a strong man, and sweet with the music of children's voices, +where she would be safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But +only for a moment. Swifter than the play of light there flashed before +her another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, +eager, rapt, listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, swaying, +compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed muscles tone up +into firmness. The force of her ambition was being transmitted along +those subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and mind and body into one +complex whole, into the very sinews and muscles of her frame. She had +hold of herself again. She would set herself to gain time. + +“Let us wait, Barney,” she said, “let us take time.” + +An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. What a +weak fool he had been and how he had been thinking of himself! He sat +up, straight and strong, his own man again. + +“Forgive me, darling,” he said, a faint, wan smile flitting across his +face. “I was weak and selfish. I allowed myself to think for a moment +that it might be, but now I know we must say good-bye to-night.” + +“Good-bye?” The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was so +stubborn. “Surely, Barney, it is unreasonable to ask me to decide at +once to-night.” + +He rose to his feet and lifted her gently. + +“You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and it +lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly away.” His voice was toneless, +passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had left him +exhausted. His apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. It was a +supreme moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan her soul's +fires into flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out of her +life, but there was no acute sense of laceration. The inevitable had +come to pass. A silence, dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside +the storm was lashing the wet leaves against the window. + +“If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will bring +me. I shall be waiting, waiting. Remember that, always waiting.” He +tightened his arms about her and without passion, but gravely, tenderly +he lifted her face. “Good-bye, my love,” he said, and kissed her lips. +“My heart's love!” Once more he kissed her. “My life! My love!” + +She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but for +the eyes that held his fast and for the lips that gave him back his +kisses. Gently he placed her on the couch. + +“God keep you, darling,” he whispered, bending over her and touching her +dusky hair with his lips. + +He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a heavy +load, her eyes following his every step, and reached the door. There he +paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the door, halted yet an +instant, but without turning he passed out of her sight. + +An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney had +left her, dazed and tearless. + +“He is gone,” she said dully. + +Margaret turned upon her. “Gone? Yes. I have just seen him.” + +“And I love him,” continued Iola, looking up at her with heavy eyes. + +“Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for your +paltry, selfish ambition you send from you a man whose shoes you are not +worthy to tie!” + +“Oh, Margaret!” cried Iola piteously. + +“Don't talk to me!” she replied, her lip quivering. “I can't bear to +look at you!” and she passed into her room. + +It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded lightly +the love she herself would have died to gain. But long after Iola had +sobbed herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful for her own +pain and for that of the man she loved better than her life. + +But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret would +not have it. + +“Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give him +pain. Do you want him to despise you and me to hate you?” + +But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff Charrington +who fortunately intervened and carried Iola off with her to spend the +afternoon and evening. + +“Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. Bring +your guitar with you.” + +Iola demurred. + +“I don't feel like it.” + +“Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, but +remember this, the men don't like stale beer.” + +This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and lay +aside the role she had unconsciously planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. +Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling animation of +her protegee. + +But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull +out that night there was only dreary, voiceless misery. There was no +pretence at anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of parting +would be the end of all that had been so delightful in their old life. +The days of their long companionship were over, and to both the thought +brought grief that made words impossible. Only Margaret's presence +forced them to self-control. As to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full +measure of her grief, and her quiet, serene courage filled him with +amazed admiration. At length came the call of the bustling, businesslike +conductor, “All aboard!” + +“Good-bye, Margaret,” said Barney simply, holding out his hand. But the +girl quietly put back her veil and lifted up her face to him, her brave +blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips only said, +“Good-bye, Barney.” + +“Good-bye, dear Margaret,” he said again, bending over her and kissing +her. + +“Me, too, Barney,” said Dick, his tears openly streaming down his face. +“I'm a confounded baby! But hanged if I care!” + +At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery vanished. He threw +his arms about his brother's neck, crying “Good-bye, Dick, old man. +We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, it's all come +to an end!” + +Already the train was moving. + +“Go, old chap,” cried Dick, pushing him away but still clinging to him. +And then, as Barney swung on to the step he called back to them what had +long been in his heart to say. + +“Look after her, will you?” + +“Yes, Barney, we will,” they both cried together. And as they stood +gazing through dimming tears after the train as it sped out through the +network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, they felt that a +new bond drew them closer than before. And it was the tightening of that +bond that brought them all the comfort that there was in that hour of +misery unspeakable. + + + + +XIII + +A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + + +The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had +been published. The Juniors were preparing to depart for their summer +work in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting +with calm confidence the indications of the will of Providence as +to their spheres of labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by +certain letters in their possession from leading members of influential +congregations. Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to +tread the weary and humiliating “trail of the black bag,” while others +again, to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant +battle, were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and +work in the great West, or in the far lands across the sea. + +Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery +examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student party. The +annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerve-racking +uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of +the most innocuous kind. On the other hand, it might develop features of +a most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this year +was unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery +examination was to be of the more serious type. It was a time of +searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the +session, undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college +life, and more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the +archaic and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these +latter gentlemen the day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning +devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, +failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises are +supposed to afford. For their slender ray of hope that their memory +of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial was very +materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment they might +assign a perfectly correct English version to the wrong Hebrew text. The +result of such mischance they would not allow themselves to contemplate. +On the other hand, however, there was the welcome possibility that they +might be so able to dispose themselves among the orientalists in their +class that a word dropped at a critical moment might save them from this +mischance. And there was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground +of confidence, that the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of +the ever-present possibility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely +jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of oriental +literature. Of course, the examination would also include other +departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and duty of +Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of the +candidates before them. On this score, however, few indulged serious +anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, +both examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty +self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with the Shorter +Catechism received during the plastic years of childhood. + +It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. +On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle +was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the +“sinners” among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the +goal posts where, times without number, he had rescued the college from +the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with which +he carried off his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout +the term, in the college halls after tea, there had been carried on +a series of discussions extending over the whole range of the +“fundamentals,” and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and +awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. +Finlay was a huge, gaunt, broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian +by birth, a dialectician by training, and a man of war by the gift of +Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given his +body to the flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the +heretical dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly +surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of +fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to find, in +a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe haven where he might +devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of his faith within the +citadel of orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery that the +same heresies which had driven him from New College had found their +way across the sea and were being championed by a man of such winning +personality and undoubted scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon +Finlayson's mind of these discussions carried on throughout the term was +such that, after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice +to the person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty +to inform the professor in whose department these subjects lay of +the heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, +indeed, of the Canadian Church. + +The report of his interview with the professor came back to college +through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the professor's +son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a +medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately +surrounded by an eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert Duff, +the sworn ally of Mr. Finlayson. + +“Did Finlayson see your father?” inquired Mr. Duff anxiously. + +“Sure thing,” answered Tom. + +“And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?” + +“You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!” + +“And what did the professor say?” inquired Mr. Duff, with bated breath. + +“Told him to go to the devil.” + +“To what?” gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that the +foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been removed. +It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the “sinners” had +subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the spirit only, and not +the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent professor, that had been +translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son. + +Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies +had reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded +professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. +Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through +Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That +staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it +his duty to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than +retail gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off +his big, bony right hand. + +The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which +gained for him the cognomen of “Squeaky Sandy,” and a most irritatingly +persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners were +disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology, +fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding of his +license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the +college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much +heated discussion. + +Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student +parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was +undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his +students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature +generally and of student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle +lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with +very beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole +life was one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper +to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit +and kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The +consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the +backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished +with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey +nooks and corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy +manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered +in the care she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, +brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her +friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, “There +were no last roses in her bunch.” Moreover, the wise little lady took +pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young +men of the college. + +“You must exert yourselves, my dears,” she would explain, “to make +the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something to +distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies.” + +And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw +themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the +saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures +in absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from +the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party. + +Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but +even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's +college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme +of conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the +sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself +was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to +both of them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret +extract anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For +full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert +Kidd, second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face +and fresh innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of “Baby Kidd,” + or more shortly, “Kiddie.” + +“Tell us just what happened,” entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with +a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly +acquiesced. + +“Well, I'll tell you,” he said, adopting a low confidential tone. “I +could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out after +Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till +everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over +the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be quite +safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly +state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't +know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You +believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart +stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is +that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you +believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I +have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. +Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it.” + +“Who was it?” inquired Miss Belle. + +“Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Pre-mill, +too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old +Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every +doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off +the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the +whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in +Scotland.” + +“No,” said Miss Belle, “I don't know. And you don't, either, so you +needn't stop and try to tell us.” + +“I don't, eh?” said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in +a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's +black eyes. “Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you +understand.” + +“Hear him!” said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. “Go on. We are +interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?” + +“Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed +to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the brethren +interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their +kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr. +Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching investigation! +We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines +of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is +nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on +shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet +to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to +take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' +stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you +a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head +go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a +convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around +and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't +suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the +theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at +once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out +of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a +roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery +to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the +desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, +I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a +regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from +Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he +could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what +Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr. +Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for +the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus +with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all +at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a +pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my +pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every +doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And +I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how +slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then +Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the +result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's where he is +now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph +wants him.” + +“Journalism?” cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced +old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her son should +be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. + +“Yes,” said Kiddie. “And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done +with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a row at the +college!” continued Kiddie. “Old Father Finlayson there,” nodding across +the room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be +an extremely interesting conversation with his hostess, “orthodox old +beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You +know he has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible +themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much +for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle +came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by +the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most +iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever +with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in +tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, will you!” + +The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror +the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers +adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling +contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which +his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of +Canada. + +“You may laugh,” continued Bob. “So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he +can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! He's all white, +and he has the heart of a gentleman!” Little Kidd's voice went shaky and +his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of +deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never been so +near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She +showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson “the +time of his life,” as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed, +did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and +good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to +inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was +to “come out to him as soon as he was placed.” He was surprised, +but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no +difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper hour, +however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded +her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr. +Finlayson “the time of his life.” But not a word could she extract from +him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a +Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a +density of ignorance unparalleled in her experience, until she let it +be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. +Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at +the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious concern for his +future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, +Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, +during the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he +had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's +mind, her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the +opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true +from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did +she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried +back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, but +withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the +young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this +theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly +to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the +professors might cease giving parties. + +The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For +if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only +increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths +more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of +darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows, +and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he +light upon a friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him +to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze +his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to +dwell. And he may well thank God if his path lead him some whither where +there is space enough to work his day's work and light enough to live +by. + +With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend +who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be +quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side +Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to +right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to +wait till the better day dawned. + + + + +XIV + +WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + + +The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and +its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and +upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks +and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. +Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the +immortals to whom has come the “vision splendid” and whose are the +voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call +that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such +words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic +value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for. + +Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But +there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, +tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of +business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call +themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism. + +And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of +politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here +the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime +puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, +from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the +delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the +masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that +sticks and stings where it sticks. + +The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type +that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called +by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and +nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its +staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody +cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly +established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, +in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the +uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less +perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study +euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial +deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business +of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement +energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not +successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can +give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be +cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared. + +It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily +Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the +part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, +therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university +training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the +University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse +English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his +apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime +and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it +is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer +sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his +life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would +stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar +that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that +immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its +place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power +to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, +came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. +On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from +those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high +souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance. + +“We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret,” Mrs. Macdougall +would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should +betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. “But I doubt not he is +very busy with his new duties.” + +“Yes, he is very busy,” Margaret would reply, striving to guard her +voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed, +nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the +broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain +its own. + +“Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear,” the little +lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying +that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. + +But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for +an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the +professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more +often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had +grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with +distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she +fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they +made entrance and to abide. + +The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming +sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining +waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all +save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which +they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such +painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out +of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and +castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time. + +A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at +times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some +new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without +remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving +freely her great voice and her superb body, now developed into the full +splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about +her and gave her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the +while of the very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the +shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she +could tickle their senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies +and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their lusts and +despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh +curves and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she +revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal, +maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought +destruction among men and fury among women. + +To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, +Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her +preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of +her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, +but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was +established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those +conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise +old world has proved, man and woman with the dread potencies of passion +slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, +as by their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily +association. Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the masters of +the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and +was at present devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. +Together they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's +connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which +society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together. +Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon +him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from +her physical charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her +presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his weakness; but +once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power +reasserted itself. The mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its +terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation of +Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's +love for her had not changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing +intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love +of his closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile +keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome +fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life +devoted to well doing. + +Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something +did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's +life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had +waited, longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, +until suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it +was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, +so tender, and withal so humble, that even across the space that these +months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred +and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to +Margaret and read her such parts as she thought necessary. “A year has +gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. +Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been +severe. If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, +shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had hoped +a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an +assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in +the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all that my +work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but +into your eyes--I may be able to live without you, but I cannot live my +best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait +even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me +to come.” + +“How can I answer a letter like that?” said Iola to Margaret. + +“How?” exclaimed Margaret. “Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to him. +Anything to get him to you.” + +Iola mused a while. “He wants me to marry him and to keep his house.” + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “he does.” + +“Housekeeping and babies, ugh!” shuddered Iola. + +“Yes,” cried Margaret, “ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and +Barney! God pity your poor soul!” + +Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion. + +“What do you mean?” she cried. “Why do you speak so?” + +“Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your +woman's heart?” + +From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was +growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They +were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be +supper. And when he had taken her home she would show him the letter. + +On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he +suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the office. + +“Let us run in for a moment,” he said. + +“I think I had better wait you here,” replied Iola. + +“Nonsense!” cried Dick. “Don't be a baby. Come in.” + +Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew +forth Barney's letter. + +“Listen, Dick. I want your advice.” And she read over such portions of +Barney's letter as she thought necessary. + +“Well?” she said, as Dick remained silent. + +“Well,” replied Dick, “what's your answer to be?” + +“You know what he means,” said Iola a little impatiently. “He wants me +to marry him at once and to settle down.” + +“Well,” said Dick, “why not?” + +“Now, Dick,” cried Iola, “do you think I am suited for that kind of +life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a house tidy, +the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the long, quiet +evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his patients while +I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the great world +forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But I must +have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!” + +“Forgotten?” cried Dick. “Why should you be forgotten? Barney's wife +could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. And, after +all,” added Dick, in a musing tone, “to live with Barney ought to be +good enough for any woman.” + +“Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!” she cried, making a little moue. “You +are quite irresistible!” she added, leaning toward him with a mocking +laugh. + +“Come, let us go,” said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical charm. +“We must get away.” + +“But you haven't helped me, Dick,” she cried, drawing nearer to him and +laying her hand upon his arm. + +The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face +and form intoxicated him. + +He knew he was losing control of himself. + +“Come, Iola,” he said, “let us go.” + +“Tell me what to say, Dick,” she replied, smiling into his face and +leaning toward him. + +“How can I tell you?” cried Dick desperately, springing up. “I only know +you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a devil! What has +come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? Do you know,” + he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath coming hard and +fast, “I can hardly keep my hands off you. We must go. I must go. Come!” + +“Poor child,” mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, “is it afraid it +will get hurt?” + +“Stop it, Iola!” cried Dick. “Come on!” + +“Come,” she mocked, still leaning toward him. + +Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon +her mocking face. “Kiss me!” he commanded. + +Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing +him steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, passionate lure +of her lustrous eyes. + +“Kiss me!” he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him still +with her gaze. + +“God in heaven!” cried Dick. “Go away!” He made to push her from him. +She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to sink in his arms +with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed her to him, and +again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face. + +Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing +through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not the +opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For +a single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death +itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, +the two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their +ghastly faces. + +“Barney!” they cried together. + +Slowly he came back to them. “Yes, it is I.” The words seemed to come +from some far distance. “I couldn't wait. I came for my answer, Iola. +I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have lost +you! And”--here he turned to Dick--“oh, my God! My God! I have lost my +brother, too!” he turned to depart from him. + +“Barney,” cried Dick passionately, “there was no wrong! There was +nothing beyond what you saw!” + +“Was that all?” inquired his brother quietly. + +“As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!” + +Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and +picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed +it to his brother with his finger upon a verse. + +“Read!” he said. “You know your Bible. Read!” His voice was terrible and +compelling in its calmness. + +Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed +to sear his eyeballs as he read, “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust +after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” + Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word. + +“I could kill you now,” said the quiet, terrible voice. “But what need? +To me you are already dead.” + +When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank +into a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him stood Iola, +pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She +was the first to recover. + +“Dick,” she said softly, laying her hand upon his head. + +He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot iron and had burned to +the bone. + +“Don't touch me!” he cried in vehement frenzy. “You are a devil! And I +am in hell! In hell! do you hear?” He caught her by the arm and shook +her. “And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no hell?” He turned again +to her. “And for you, for this, and this, and this,” touching her +hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with his finger, “I have lost my +brother--my brother--my own brother--Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned! +Damned! Damned!” + +She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, “Oh, Dick, +spare me! Take me home!” + +“Yes, yes,” he cried in mad haste, “anywhere, in the devil's name! Come! +Come!” He seized her wrap, threw it upon her shoulders, caught up his +hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her out. + +“Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?” And out of the +embers of his passion there kindled a fire that night that burned with +unquenchable fury for many a day. + + + + +XV + +THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + + +The Superintendent was spending the precious hours of one of his rare +visits at home in painful plodding through his correspondence. For it +was part of the sacrifice his work demanded, and which he cheerfully +made, that he should forsake home and wife and children for his work's +sake. The Assembly's Convener found him in the midst of an orderly +confusion of papers of different sorts. + +“How do you do, sir?” The Superintendent's voice had a fine burr about +it that gripped the ear, and his hand a vigour and tenacity of hold +that gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's Convener and nearly +brought the little man to the floor. “Sit down, sir, and listen to this. +Here are some of the compensations that go with the Superintendent's +office. This is rich. It comes from my friend, Henry Fink, of the +Columbia Forks in the Windermere Valley. British Columbia, you +understand,” noticing the Convener's puzzled expression. “I visited the +valley a year ago and found a truly deplorable condition of things. +Men had gone up there many years ago and settled down remote from +civilization. Some of them married Indian wives and others of them +ought to have married them, and they have brought up families in the +atmosphere and beliefs of the pagans. Would you believe it, I fell in +with a young man on the trail, twenty years of age, who had never heard +the name of our Saviour except in oaths? He had never heard the story of +the Cross. And there are many others like him. At the Columbia Forks the +only institution that stands for things intellectual is a Freethinkers' +Club, the president of which is a retired colonel of the British Army, a +man of fine manners, of some degree of intelligence and reading, but, +I have reason to believe, of bad life. His is the dominant influence in +the community if we except my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known +locally, 'Hank Fink.' Hank is a character, I assure you. A Yankee from +the Eastern States, the son of a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs +a store which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, and miners +with the necessaries of life, and keeps a stopping place. Is postmaster, +too. In fact, Hank is pretty much the whole village. He has lived in +that country some fifteen years. Has a good Canadian wife, and a flock +of small children. He is a rara avis in that country from the fact that +he hates whiskey. He hates it almost as much as he does Colonel Hicks +and his Freethinking Club. When I visited the village, for some reason +or other Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in him possibly recognising +kinship. He gave me his store to preach in, took me all about the +country, and in a week had a mission organized on a sound financial +basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, and very effective. He +estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this fact to the +man, who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into Hank's +motives, but it seemed to give him considerable satisfaction to learn +that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful rage at the +proposal to establish a Christian mission in that remote valley. It +grieved the Colonel to think that after so many years of immunity they +should at last be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive +appendage to an effete civilization. I noticed that Hank's English +always broke down in referring to the Colonel. Well, we sent in +Finlayson a year ago this spring, you remember. Strong man, good +preacher, conscientious fellow. Thought he would do great work. You know +Finlayson? Well, this is the result.” Here he picked up Hank's letter. +“This would hardly do for the Home Mission report,” continued the +Superintendent, with a twinkle in his keen grey eyes: + + +“COLUMBIA FORKS, WINDERMERE, B. C. + +“DEAR SIR:--I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you know how +things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you this station is goin' to +the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it hadn't far to go.] +Your preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer some +people, but he ain't our style. [Mr. Finlayson would doubtless agree +with that.] He means well, but he ain't eddicated up to the West. You +remember how we got the boys all corralled up nice an' tame when you +was here. Well, he's got 'em wild. Couldn't reach 'em with a shotgun. He +throwed hell fire at 'em till they got scart an' took to the hills till +you can't get near 'em no more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit +comin'--I don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come, anyway--except +me an' Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can always count on the +dog. Now, sir, this is your show, not mine. But I was born an' raised a +Presbyteryn down East, an' though I haven't worked hard at the business +for some years, it riles me some to hear Col. Hicks an' a lot of durned +fools that has got smarter than God Almighty Himself shootin' off +against the Bible an' religion an' all that. [We needn't read too +closely between the lines at this point.] Send a man that don't smell +so strong of sulphur an' brimstone, who has got some savey, an' who will +know how to handle the boys gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a +leetle wild. Send him along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar +out of that bunch of fools. + +“Yours most respeckfully, + +“HENRY FINK. + +“P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you could arrange +to spend a month or two I'll guarantee we will have 'em all in nice +shape. + +“Yours respeckfully, + +“HENRY FINK.” + + +“I don't think you can count much from the support of a man like that,” + said the assembly's Convener; “I don't think he shows any real interest +in the work.” + +“My dear sir,” said the Superintendent, “don't you know he is the +Chairman of our Board of Management, a most regular attendant upon +ordinances and contributes most liberally to our support? And while +these things in the East wouldn't necessarily indicate a change of +heart, they stand for a good deal west of the Great Divide. And, at any +rate, in these matters we remember gratefully the word that is written, +'He that is not against us is on our part.'” + +“Well, well,” said the Assembly's Convener, “it may be so. It may be so. +But what's to be done with Finlayson? And where will you get a successor +for him?” + +“We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good man and will do excellent +work in other fields. But where to get a man for Windermere is the +question. Do you know anyone?” + +The Assembly's Convener shook his head sadly. + +“There appears to be no one in sight,” said the Superintendent. “I have +a number of applications here,” picking up a good-sized bundle of neatly +folded papers, “but they are hardly the kind to suit conditions at +Windermere. Numbers of them feel themselves specially called of God +to do mission work in large centres of population. Others are chiefly +anxious about the question of support. One man would like to be in touch +with a daily train service, as he feels it necessary to keep in touch +with the world by means of the daily newspaper. A number are engaged who +want to be married. Here's Mr. Brown, too fat. No move in him. Here's +McKay--good man, earnest, but not adaptable, like Finlayson; won't do. +Here's Garton--fine fellow, would do well, but hardly strong enough. So +what are you to do? I have gone over the whole list of available men and +I cannot find one suitable for Windermere.” + +In this the Assembly's Convener could give him no help. Indeed, from few +did the Superintendent receive assistance in the securing of men for his +far outposts. + +Assistance came to him from an unexpected quarter. He was to meet the +Assembly's Convener and some members of the Committee that evening at +Professor Macdougall's for tea. The Superintendent's mind could not be +kept long away from the work that was his very life, and at the table +the conversation turned to the question of the chronic difficulty of +securing men for frontier work, which had become acute in the case of +Windermere. Margaret, who had been invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in +the dispensing of her hospitality, was at once on the alert. Why could +not Dick be sent? If only that Presbytery difficulty could be got over +he might go. That he would be suited for the work she was well assured, +and equally certain was she that it would be good for him. + +“It would save him,” Margaret said to herself with a sharp sting at +her heart, for she had to confess sadly that Dick had come to the point +where he needed saving. She had learned from Iola the whole miserable +story of Barney's visit, of his terrible indictment of his brother and +the final break between them, but she had seen little of him during the +past six months. From that terrible night Dick had gone down in physical +and in moral health. Again and again he had written Barney, but there +had been no reply. Hungrily he had come to Margaret for word of his +brother, hopeful of reconciliation. But of late he had given up hope +and had ceased to make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy, +remorseful grief into which Margaret felt she dare not intrude. He +occasionally met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all +intimacy between them. His only relief seemed to be in his work, and +he gave himself to that with such feverish energy that his health +broke down, and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his +mother. Thence he had written once to say that his days were one long +agony. She remembered one terrible sentence. “Everything here, the +house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, the woods, the +fields, everything, everything shrieks 'Barney' at me till I am like to +go mad. I must get away from here to some place where he has never been +with me.” + +It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent that +evening for a few minutes alone. In whatever company he was, he was +easily the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days of +the Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he was not a man to forget +his friends. He had the rare gift of gripping them to him with “hooks +of steel.” Hence, he had kept in touch with her during the latter years, +pitying the girl's loneliness as much as his admiration for her cheery +courage and her determined independence would allow him. When Margaret +found her opportunity she wasted no time. + +“I have a man for you for Windermere,” were her opening words. + +“You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you willing to +spare him? Few young ladies are. But you are different from most.” The +Superintendent was ever a gallant. + +“You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?” Her words came +hurriedly and there was a slight flush on her cheek. “There was some +trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. Naismith +was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I mean--we have always been +friends,” she hastened to add, explaining her deepening blush, “you know +his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since that day in Presbytery +he has never been the same. His work--he is on the Daily Telegraph, +you know--takes him away from--from--well, from Church and that kind of +thing, and from all his friends.” + +“I understand,” said the Superintendent, with grave sympathy. + +“And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great +trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may as well tell you. The +brothers--you remember the doctor, Barney?” + +“Very well,” replied the Superintendent. “Strong man. Where is he now?” + +“He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were everything to each other +since little fellows together. Oh, it was beautiful! I never saw +anything like it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, a terrible +misunderstanding. Dick was in the wrong.” The Superintendent shot a keen +glance at her. “No,” she said, answering his glance, the colour in her +face deepening into a vivid scarlet, “it was not about me, not at all. I +can't tell you about it, but that, and his trouble with the Presbytery, +and all the rest of it are just killing him. And I know if he got back +to his own work again and away from home it would save him, and his +mother, too, for she is breaking her heart. Couldn't you get him out +there?” + +The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had been for her to tell the +story, and the sight of her eager face, the big blue eyes bright, and +the lips quivering with the intensity of her feeling, deeply touched +him. + +“It might be possible,” he said. + +“Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty,” cried Margaret, with a desperate +note in her voice. + +“That could be arranged, I have no doubt,” said the Superintendent, +brushing aside that difficulty with a wave of the hand. “The question +is, would he be willing to go?” + +“Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him and if you told him those +stories about the need there is, I am sure he would go. Could you see +him? There is no use to write. I do wish you could. He is such a fine +boy and his mother is so set upon his being a minister.” The blue eyes +were bright with tears she was too brave to let fall. + +“My dear young lady,” said the Superintendent, his deep voice growing +deeper under the intensity of his feelings, “I would do much for your +sake and for your mother's. I am to visit your home early next month. +I shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, and I promise you I shall get +him if it is possible.” + +The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart deprived the girl of +speech, but she shyly put out her hand and touched the long, sinewy +fingers that lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. Instantly the +fingers closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong that it seemed to +drive the conviction into her heart that somehow this strong man would +find a way by which Dick could be saved. + + +How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent overcame Dick's +objections, Margaret never learned. But the full bitter tale of reasons +against his ever taking up his work again, with which Dick had made +himself so familiar during the past dark, dreary months, were one by +one removed, and when the Superintendent left the Old Stone Mill he had +secured his missionary for Windermere. It gave the Superintendent acute +satisfaction to remember the flash of his missionary's blue eyes as, in +answer to the warning, “You will have a hard fight of it, remember,” the +reply came, “A hard fight? Thank God!” + +Before the year was over it fell that the Windermere valley came to be +one of the mission fields that gladdened the hearts of the Home Mission +Committee of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of its doughty +Convener. In the Convener's study, eight by ten, the report from the +Windermere field was discussed with the ubiquitous and indefatigable +Superintendent. + +“An extremely gratifying record,” said the Superintendent, “especially +when one considers its disorganized condition a year ago.” + +“Yes, it's a good report,” assented the Convener. “We had practically no +support a year ago. Our strongest man--” + +“Fink?” + +“Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's enthusiasm and devotion were +hardly of what you would call the purest type. But whatever his motive, +he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is a splendid testimony +of the power of the Gospel to see the change in that same shrewd old +sinner. Yes, sir, give the Gospel a chance and it will do its work.” The +Convener, who hated all cant and canting phrases with a perfect hatred, +rarely allowed himself the luxury of an emotional outbreak. But the case +of Hank Fink seemed to reach the springs of feeling that he kept hidden +in the deep heart of him. + +“So Boyle has done well?” said the Superintendent. “I am very glad of +it. Very glad of it, for his own sake, for his mother's, and for the +sake of another.” + +“Yes,” replied the Convener, “Boyle has done a fine bit of work. He +lived all summer on his horse's back and in his canoe, followed the +prospectors up into the gulches and the miners to their mines, if you +can call them mines, left a magazine here, a book there, a New Testament +next place. And once he got his grip on a man, he never let him go. Hank +told me how he found a man sick in a camp away up in a gulch and how +he stayed with him for more than a week, then brought him down on his +horse's back to the Forks. Yes, it's a good record. A church built +at the north end of the field, another almost completed at the Forks. +Really, it was very fine,” continued the Convener, allowing his +enthusiasm to rise. “It renews one's faith in the reality of religion to +see a man jump into his work like that. They didn't pay him his salary +the first half year, but he omitted to mention that in his report.” + +The Superintendent sat up straight. “Is he behind yet?” + +“No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and explained that if the field +failed it was Boyle that would suffer. His language--well,” the Convener +laughed reminiscently, “you have seen Hank?” + +“Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've read him. But let us hope +that his deeds will atone in a measure for his broken English. But,” + continued the Superintendent, “you have had Boyle ordained, have you +not?” + +“Yes. We got him ordained,” replied the Convener, beginning to chuckle. +A delighted, choking chuckle it was. Any missionary who had worked in +his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the dark by that chuckle. +It began, if one were quick to observe, with a wrinkling about the +corners of the sharp blue eyes, then became audible in a succession of +small explosions that seemed to have their origin in the region of the +esophagus and to threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was +found in a wide-throated peal that subsided in a second series of small +explosions and gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the +region of the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners +of the blue eyes as a kind of warning that the whole process might be +repeated upon sufficient provocation. “Yes, we got him ordained,” he +repeated when the chuckle had passed. “I was glad of your explanatory +note about him. It guided us in our arrangements for examination.” + +“What happened?” inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. He dearly +loved a yarn, and he sorely hated to lose any of the more humorous +incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they brought him, +but also because they furnished him with ammunition for his Eastern +campaigns. + +“Well, it was funny,” said the Convener, his lips twitching and his eyes +wrinkling, “though at one time it looked like an Assembly case with +all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our latest +importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got wind of +Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in the East. McPherson is a fine +fellow and doing good work.” + +“Yes,” assented the Superintendent, “he's a fine fellow, but his +conscience gives him a hard time now and then and works over time for +other People.” + +“Well,” continued the Convener, “McPherson came to me about the matter +in very considerable anxiety. I put him off, consulted with McTavish and +Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man to lose, and as to +his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far as we could learn. So +it happened”--here the Convener pulled himself up short to suppress the +chuckle that threatened--“it happened that just as the examination +was beginning McPherson was called out, and before he had returned the +trials for license and ordination had been sustained. I think on the +whole McPherson was relieved, but there were some funny moments after he +came back into court.” + +“Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West,” said the Superintendent. +“There's no time for it. Some of the Eastern Presbyteries have too many +men with more time on their hands than sense in their heads.” + +“Certainly there was no time lost in this case,” replied the Convener. +“We knew Boyle's scholarship was right. We knew his heart was sound. We +knew he was doing good work for us and we knew we wanted him. We were +not anxious to know anything else.” + +“What we want for the West,” said the Superintendent, his voice +vibrating in a deeper tone, “is men who have the spirit of the Gospel +with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with tact +to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, more or less, won't hurt +them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other fellow's.” + +“In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. It +gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with all heretics. It was that more +than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club.” + +“Ah,” said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again on the +scent, “I didn't hear that.” + +“Yes,” said the Convener, “Fink told me about it. Boyle went to +their meetings. He found them revelling in cheap scepticism of the +Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a working +theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to--his real attitude, mind +you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of their positions and, +as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water and had them froggin' for +their lives. He was the biggest Freethinker in the bunch.' They invited +him to give a series of lectures. He did so, and that settled the +Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for doubting anything, and I +believe that's right.” The Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and, +consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. “Let a man doubt till +he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them doubt, but he +insisted that they should have something positive to live by.” + +“Our friend Hank,” said the Superintendent, “would be delighted.” + +“Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his mirth,' +for Boyle got after him with the same demands.” + +The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his missionary. +“That's the kind of man we want. He ought to do well in your railroad +field.” + +“Yes,” replied the Convener hesitatingly. “You think he ought to go? +Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't care to go in there after Boyle +is removed.” + +“It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That +railroad work is most pressing, and only a man like Boyle will do. There +will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter +between Macleod and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have had +correspondence with Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's Nest line, +and he is not unfriendly, though he would prefer us to send in medical +missionaries. But that work he and his contractors ought to look after.” + +“There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I fear, +from all reports,” replied the Convener. “By the way, there is a young +English doctor working on that eastern division from the MaCleod end +who is making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I believe. He began as a +navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, and the doctor a poor drunken +fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long as he could, then finally +threw him out of the camp and installed himself in his place. The +contractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the medical work in +that direction. Murray told me the most wonderful tales about him. He +must be a remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't +have it near the camp. You ought to look him up when you go in.” + +“I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people ought +to feel disgraced in employing them. They draw their fifty cents per man +a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a delicate matter, but I +shall take this up with Fahey when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but +he is fair and he won't stand any nonsense.” + +“And you think Boyle ought to go in?” + +“Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of +men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of things. +Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?” + +“No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he came +to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me for weeks. +He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life.” + +The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare +gift of silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break no +confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and +after he had sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already +written, on the table and sat back in his chair indulging himself in a +few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept kitchen in the Old +Stone Mill and, bending over his letter a woman, dark-faced and stern, +her wavy, black hair heavily streaked with white, for during the past +years the sword had pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her +tragic Highland face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With +glad heart she had given him up, and now, with humble joy, she would +read that her offering had been accepted. + +The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with all +its beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl pleading for her +friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her +invincible faith, “I know that if he got at his own work again it would +save him.” He could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of her +fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be +fulfilled. He had kept his word and her faith had not been put to shame. + + + + +XVI + +THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + + +“Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick +himself ye're dodgin'.” + +Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan +camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos. + +“Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill +alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's +over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be +praised! He's there yit,” said Tommy to himself. “We're on the dump +now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av +Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!” + +The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush +roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath their +feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was +driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared +nothing for himself. His concern was for the man lying under the buffalo +robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless +lope, encouraged by the cheery admonitions and the cracking whip of +their driver. + +“Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey. +I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste.” + +He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a +flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the sick man. + +“Here, Scotty,” he said coaxingly, “take another taste. It'll put life +into ye.” The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, choked hard, then +shook his head. “Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye swally at all? An' +the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need +it an' we're not far aff now.” Once more the sick man made a desperate +effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, then turned away his +head. The tender-hearted little Irishman covered him over carefully and +climbed into his seat. “He couldn't swally it,” he said to himself in an +awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, “Begorra, an' it's near +the Kingdom he must be!” To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of +approaching dissolution that a man should reject the contents of his +flask. He gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos +all the speed they had. “Come on, now, me bhoys!” he shouted through +the gale, “what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than +yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, +thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're beginin' to move! Hooray!” + +So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came +out into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the lights of the +new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1. + +“Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought +ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten +howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life +into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?” But there was no movement +in response. “Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!” He stood up over +his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at +full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the +driving wind. “Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an' +the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at +hand!” + +Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the +various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building, +the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the +glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the “red +lights,” the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in +British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through +the snowy night. + +At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first +saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying +out, “Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!” Swipey, the +saloon-keeper, came himself to the door. + +“What have you there, Tommy?” he asked. + +“It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, +Scotty?” There was no answer. “The saints be good to us! Are ye alive +at all?” He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he +found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. “Where's yer doctor?” + +“Haven't seen him raound,” said Swipey. “Have you, Shorty?” + +“Yes,” replied the man called Shorty. “He's in there with the boys.” + +Tommy swore a great oath. “Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty +suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!” + +“He's not that way,” replied Swipey, “our doctor.” + +“Not much he ain't!” cried Shorty. “But he's into the biggest game with +'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp.” + +“Fer the love av Hivin git him!” cried Tommy. “The man is dyin'. Here, +min, let's git him in.” + +“There's no place here for a sick man,” said the saloon-keeper. + +“What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!” + +“Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time.” An angry +murmur ran through the men about the door. “Take him up to the +bunk-house,” said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. +“What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? +How do you know what he's got?” + +“What differ does it make what he's got?” retorted Tommy. “Blank yer +dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money +ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?” he +cried, appealing to the crowd. “Ye can't let him die on the street!” + +Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar +of the “Frank” saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men +with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of “Black Jack” for +which he held the pot. Opposite him sat “Mexico,” the type of a Western +professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair +of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair +of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from +his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the +last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had +a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made +but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way +to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time +to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, +colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set +and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full +of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it. + +“The doctor's wanted!” shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not +a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor +remained unmoved. + +“There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2,” continued Shorty. + +“Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!” growled out “Mexico,” who +had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but +who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn. + +“He's out here in the snow,” continued Shorty, “an' he's chokin' to +death, an' we don't know what to do with him.” + +The doctor looked up from his hand. “Put him in somewhere. I'll be along +soon.” + +“They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to +death.” + +The doctor turned down his cards. “What do you say? Choking to death?” + He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to +assert itself. + +“Yes,” continued Shorty. “There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't +swallow. An' we can't git him in.” + +The doctor pushed back his chair. “Here, men,” he said, “I'm going to +quit.” + +A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal. + +“You can't quit now!” growled “Mexico” fiercely, like a dog that is +about to lose a bone. “You've got to give us a chance.” + +“Well, here's your chance then,” cried the doctor. “Let's stop this +tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece. +I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a +dollar, and quit. Come on.” + +The greatness of the opportunity staggered them. + +Then they flung themselves upon it. “It's a go!” “Come on!” “Give us +your cards!” Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made +up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless +excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake. + +“Now, then, show down,” growled “Mexico.” + +The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their +hands. He had won. With an oath “Mexico” made a grab for the pile, +reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the +doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak “Mexico” was +lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair. + +“Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game,” said +the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them +down into his pocket. “Where's your sick man?” + +“This way, doctor,” said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The +doctor passed him on a run. + +“What does this mean?” he cried. “Why haven't you got him inside +somewhere?” + +“That's what I say, docthor,” answered Tommy, “but the bloody haythen +wudn't let him in.” + +“How's this, Swipey?” said the doctor sternly, turning to the +saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door. + +“He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?” + +“I'll take that responsibility,” replied the doctor. “In he goes. Here, +take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now.” + +Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to +do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door. + +“Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick +about it.” + +Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. “It must be warm, eh? Want a +bath in it next, I suppose.” + +“This will do,” said the doctor when they reached the room. “Now, clear +out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty.” Without hurry, but +with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed +between heated blankets. “Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his +throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back.” + +He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm +to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two +hot-water bottles. + +“We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full +of hot water for me.” + +“What is it, Doctor?” cried Shorty anxiously. + +“Go quick!” The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty +knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift, +deft movements the doctor went about his work. + +“Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. +It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed +infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor +chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way.” Again he +filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second +injection. “There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a +man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, +don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here +within an hour.” Shorty turned to go. “Wait. Do you know this man's +name?” + +“I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I +think.” + +“All right. Now, go and get the teamster.” + +The doctor turned to his struggle with death. “There is no chance, no +chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!” he muttered, as he +strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get +his breath. + +After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction +of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had +given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase +his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he +could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was +simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man +opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and +leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was +making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear. +Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay. + +“You want something out of your pocket?” inquired the doctor. The eyes +gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the +pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had +followed every movement expressed satisfaction. + +“Do you want me to read it?” + +It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing +gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, +love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's +fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never +moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor +put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. +The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's +bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only +for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face. + +“Something else in your pocket?” + +The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came +to a large worn pocketbook. + +“This?” + +With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket +he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes +of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his +hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to +question. + +“You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes.” + The eyes remained wide open. “No? You want me to do something for you? +To write?” At once the eyes closed. “I shall write to your mother and +send all your things and tell them about you.” A smile spread over the +face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they +opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The +lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word +“Thank.” + +“Thank who? The teamster?” + +The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers. + +“Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you,” said the +doctor. “Anything else?” + +The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon +the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, +till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, +putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, +“Mother--home,” and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling. + +“You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?” And once more +a glad smile lit up the distorted face. + +For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through +the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken +song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the +door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After +the spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his +breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their +appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening +intently, he heard the word, “Pray.” The doctor's pale face flushed +quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, “I'm +no good at that.” Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and +again the doctor caught the words, “Jesus, tender--.” It had been the +doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips. +He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the +eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him to begin. + +“All right,” said the doctor through his set teeth, “I'll do it.” + +And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn +silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of +that ancient child's prayer, “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” At the +third verse, + + + “Let my sins be all forgiven, + Bless the friends I love so well, + Take me when I die to heaven, + Happy there with Thee to dwell.” + + +there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content, +and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer +had come, “Happy there with Thee to dwell.” Poor Scotty! Out from the +sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been +taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more +out forever. + +Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears. +As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply +about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping their +eyes and struggling with their sobs. + +“Confound you, Shorty!” burst forth the doctor wrathfully, “what in the +mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead +man before?” The doctor was clearly in a rage. During the weeks +Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show anything but a +perfectly cold and self-composed face. “Is this the teamster?” continued +the doctor. “Come in here. You see that man? Someone has murdered him. +Who sent him down here through this storm? How long had he been ill? +Have you a doctor up there? Are there any more sick? Why don't you speak +up? What's your name?” In an angry flood the questions poured forth upon +the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. “Why don't you speak?” said the +doctor again. + +Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to +require least thought to answer. “Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An' +sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the +man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles, +an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker.” + +“Have you no doctor up there?” + +“Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste that +he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the +pig.” + +“Are there any more sick?” + +“Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than +poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!” + +The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking +rapidly, “Go and bring to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say not +a word to anyone, mind that. And you,” he said, turning to Tommy, “can +you start back in an hour?” + +“I can that same, if I must.” + +“You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get +something to eat.” + +In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room. + +“This man,” said the doctor, “is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear, +Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, and you +will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate +this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further +danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 +to-night.” + +“To-night, doctor!” cried the foreman. “It's blowing a regular blizzard. +Can't you wait till morning?” + +“There are men sick at No. 2,” said the doctor. “The chances are it's +diphtheria.” + +In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp +possessed. + +“Have you had something to eat, Tommy?” inquired the doctor, stepping +out from the saloon. + +“That's what I have,” replied Tommy. + +“All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep.” + +“Not if I know it, begob!” said Tommy. “I'll stay wid yez. It's mesilf +that knows a man whin I see him.” + +And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing +to find in the call to a fight with death that excitement without which +it seemed he could not live. + + + + +XVII + +THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + + +At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. +The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed +to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was +almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant +a serious reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract. + +The foreman, Craigin, was a man from “across the line,” skilled in +railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a +“driver.” He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and +gifted in large measure with the power of command. He knew his business +thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of the machinery and +men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the +line could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men +he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what was called +his “scrap-heap policy.” When any part of the machinery ceased to do +first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, +so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must +be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human +nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him +of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to +a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp. +Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they +dreaded to fall under his displeasure. + +The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce +and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry +weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was +not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the +mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After +the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all +waited the warm weather of spring with anxiety. + +On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the +team. + +“Where are your stables, Tommy?” + +“Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house.” + +“Good Lord!” murmured the doctor. “How many men have you here?” + +“Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the road.” + +“What are your sanitary arrangements?” + +“What's that?” + +“I mean how do you--what are your arrangements for keeping the camp +clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men +living together without some sanitary arrangements.” + +“Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the +week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near +the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs.” + +“And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?” + +“It is that same.” + +“And why was it built so close as that?” + +“Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av +it.” + +The doctor gave it up. “Drive on,” he said. “But what a beautiful spot +for a camp right there on that level.” + +“Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer +ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer +mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods,” replied Tom. + +“Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would +be a fine spot for the camp.” + +“It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is.” + +As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he +dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of +that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede +followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat. + +“Hello, Yonie!” cried Tommy. “What's afther gittin' ye up so early?” + +“It is no sleep for dis,” cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat. + +The doctor sprang from the sleigh. “Let me look at your throat.” + +“It's the docthor, Yonie,” explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede +submitted to the examination. + +The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping +through the treetops, and looked into his throat. “My man, you go right +back to bed quick.” + +“No, it will not to bed,” replied Yonie. “Big work to-day, boss say. He +not like men sick.” + +“You hear me,” said the doctor sharply. “You go back to bed. Where's +your doctor?” + +“He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder,” said Tommy, pointing +the way. + +“Never mind now. Where are your sick men?” + +“De seeck mans?” replied the cook. “She's be hall overe. On de +bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den +seeck mans hall aroun'.” + +“What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?” + +“Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But +she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's +what you call lak' one beas'.” + +The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern +swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the +picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern. + +“Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your +throats, men.” + +“Dis de docteur, men,” said the cook. + +A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with +each examination. + +“Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this +cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp.” + +“Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink +of it would make a well man sick.” + +“And is there no place else?” + +“No. Unless it's the stables,” said another man; “they're not quite so +bad.” + +“Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you +something.” He opened his bag, took out his syringe. “Here, Yonie, we'll +begin with you. Roll up your sleeve.” And in three minutes he had given +all four an antitoxin injection. “Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way +what's his name?” + +“Hain,” said the cook, “dat's his nem.” + +“Haines,” explained one of the men. + +“Dat's what I say,” said the cook indignantly, “Hain.” + +The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and, +getting no response, opened it and walked in. + +“Be the powers, Narcisse!” cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking after +the doctor, “it's little I iver thought I'd pity that baste, but Hivin +save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. An' begob, +he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid him.” + +But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious +etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping +heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the +outbreak of sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with +an anxious foreboding in regard to the sick man who had been sent out +the day before. Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken +fool in the presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness +that he had found it necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large +and frequent doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly +medical purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When +fully awake he was aware of a young man with a very pale and very stern +face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began: + +“Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp.” + +“Who the deuce are you?” replied Haines, staring up at him. + +“They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line.” + +“Dr. Bailey?” said Haines, sitting up. “Oh, I've heard of you.” His tone +indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, it was his special +chum and confrere who had been ejected from his position in the Gap camp +through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures. + +“You have some very sick men in the camp,” repeated Dr. Bailey, his +voice sharp and stern. + +“Oh, a little tonsilitis,” replied Haines in an indifferent tone. + +“Diphtheria,” said Bailey shortly. + +“Diphtheria be hanged!” replied Haines insolently; “I examined them +carefully last night.” + +“They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of +looking into their throats.” + +“The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here +to interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your +professional manners?” Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the +intrusion of this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the crime +of his youth that of being guilty of a serious breach of professional +etiquette. + +“I ought to apologize for looking at your patients,” said Dr. Bailey. +“I came in thinking I might be of some assistance in dealing with this +outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious to see--” + +“Diphtheria!” blurted Haines. “Nothing of the sort.” + +“Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night had it.” + +“HAD it?” + +“He died an hour after arriving at No. 1.” + +“Dead? Cursed fool! He WOULD go against my will.” + +“Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of diphtheria +leave this camp against your will with the company's team?” + +“Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and the +foreman would have him out.” + +“There are at least four men going about the camp--they are now in the +cook-house where the breakfast is being prepared--who are suffering from +a severe attack of diphtheria.” + +“What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?” said Dr. +Haines petulantly. “No appliances, no means of isolation, no nurses, +nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. What can I +do?” + +“Do you ask me?” The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. “Isolate +the infected at least.” + +Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he poured +out a cupful of whiskey from a bottle standing on a convenient shelf. +“Isolate? How can I isolate? There's no building in which--” + +“Make one.” + +“Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do you +know where you are? Do you know who is running this camp?” + +“No. But I do know that these men must be isolated within an hour.” + +“Impossible! I tell you it is impossible!” + +“Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last night +would result in the verdict of manslaughter. There was no inquest. There +will be on the next man that dies if there is any neglect.” + +The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. “Well,” + he said, “if you think you can isolate them, go ahead. I'll see the +foreman.” + +“Every minute is precious. I gave those four men antitoxin. Are there +others?” + +“Don't know,” Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, followed by +Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door they met the foreman. + +“This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin.” Craigin growled out a salutation. +“Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have diphtheria.” + +“How does he know?” inquired Craigin shortly. + +“He has examined them this morning.” + +“Have you?” + +“No, not yet.” + +“Then you don't know they have diphtheria?” + +“No,” replied Haines weakly. + +“These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they ought +to be isolated at once.” + +“Isolated? How?” + +“A separate camp must be built and someone appointed to attend them.” + +“A separate camp!” exclaimed Craigin; “I'll see them blanked first! Look +here, Haines, let's have no nonsense about this. I'm three weeks, yes, +a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank muskeg is knocking +the whole contract endways. We can't spare a single man half a day. And +more than that, you go talking diphtheria in this camp and you can't +hold the men here an hour. It's all I can do to hold them as it is.” And +Craigin went off into an elaborate course of profanity descriptive of +the various characteristics of the men in his employ. + +“But what is to be done?” asked Haines helplessly. + +“Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, anyway. It's +fine to-day. We'll send every man Jack out to-day.” + +“These men can't be moved,” said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. “You sent +a man out yesterday and he's dead.” + +“He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's none of +YOUR business. Look here, Haines, you know me. I'm not going to have +any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and all that blankety +blank rot. Dose 'em up good and send 'em out.” + +Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of the foreman. + +“Mr. Craigin, it would be murder,” said Dr. Bailey, “sure murder. Some +of them might get through. Some would be sure to die. The consequences +to those responsible--to Dr. Haines, for instance--would be serious. I +am quite sure he will never give orders that these men should be moved.” + +“He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will give +the orders right enough.” Craigin's laugh was like the growl of a bear. +“There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear me. Those men are +going out to-day, and so are you, you blank, blank interferin' skunk.” + +Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. “You may call me what you please +just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the day is over you won't have enough +names left. For I tell you that these men suffering from diphtheria are +going to stay here, and are going to be properly cared for.” + +Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced stranger should presume +to come into his domain, where his word was wont to run as absolute +law, filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were serious issues at +stake, and with a supreme effort he controlled the passionate longing to +spring upon this upstart and throttle him. He turned sharply to Haines. + +“Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out to-day?” + +Haines hesitated. + +“You understand me, Haines; these men go out or--” + +Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A moment +more he paused and then surrendered. + +“Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I guess +they can go out.” + +“Dr. Haines,” said Craigin, “is that your decision?” + +“Yes, I think so.” + +“All right,” said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned to Tommy, +who was standing near with half a dozen men who had just come out from +breakfast. “Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams ready and all the +buffalo robes you need and be ready to start in an hour. Do you hear?” + +“I do,” said Tommy, turning slowly away. + +“Tommy,” called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, “you took a man out +from this camp yesterday. Tell the men here what happened.” + +“Sure, they all know it,” said Tommy, who had already told the story of +poor Scotty's death and of the doctor's efforts to save him. “An' it's a +fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av him all the way +down, an' not able to swally a taste whin I gave it to him.” + +Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. “Here you blank, blank, blank! Do +what I tell you! And the rest of you men, what are you gawkin' at here? +Get to work!” + +The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked +quickly past Craigin into the midst of the group. + +“Men, I want to say something to you.” His voice commanded their instant +attention. “There are half a dozen of your comrades in this camp sick +with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They ought to be isolated to +prevent the spread of the disease, and they ought to be cared for at +once. The foreman proposes to send them out. One went out yesterday. He +died last night. If these men go out to-day some of them will die, and +it will be murder. What do you say? Will you let them go?” A wrathful +murmur ran through the crowd, which was being rapidly increased every +moment by others coming from breakfast. + +“Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!” shouted Craigin, +pouring out oaths. “And you,” turning toward Dr. Bailey, “get out of +this camp.” + +“I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines,” replied Dr. Bailey. “He has +asked my advice, and I am giving it.” + +“Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it!” + +By this time the men were fully roused. One of them came forward. + +“What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” he inquired. + +“Are you going to work, McLean?” shouted Craigin furiously. “If not, go +and get your time.” + +“We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin,” said +McLean quietly. “It's a serious matter. We are all concerned in it, and +we'll decide in a few minutes what is to be done.” + +“Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time,” said +Craigin, and he turned away and passed into the office. + +“What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” said McLean, ignoring the +foreman. + +“Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and where +they can be kept from infecting the rest of the camp. Half a day's work +of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of them will die. +Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you have already been +infected.” + +At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the disease, +were for sending out the sick immediately, but the majority would +not listen to this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came again to Dr. +Bailey. + +“The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be +stamped out here if you have a separate camp for an hospital?” + +“We can guarantee nothing,” replied Dr. Bailey. “But it is altogether +the safer way to fight the disease. And I am of the opinion that we can +stamp it out.” The doctor's air and tone of quiet confidence, far more +than his words, decided the men's action. In a minute more it was agreed +that the sick men should stay and that they would all stand together in +carrying out the plan of isolation. + +“If he gives any of us time,” said Tommy, “we'll all take it, begob.” + +“No, men,” said the doctor, “let's not make trouble. I know Mr. +Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and he'll do what's fair. +Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen +men--one must be able to cook--and in half a day the work will be +finished. I will be personally responsible for everything.” + +At this point Craigin came out. “Here's your time, McLean,” he said, +thrusting a time check at him. + +McLean took it without a word and went over and stood by Dr. Bailey's +side. + +“Who are coming?” called out McLean. + +“All of us,” cried a voice. “Pick out your men, McLean.” + +“All right,” said McLean, looking over the crowd. + +“I'm wan,” said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. “I seen him +shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus fightin' fer his life, an' if I'm tuk +it's him I want beside me.” + +One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the +doctor, while the rest of the men moved off to work. + +“Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for half a day.” said Dr. +Bailey. + +For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for +consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen men were in his path +before he had taken the second step. + +“Hold on, Mr. Craigin,” said McLean, “we want no violence. We're going +to do what we think right in this matter, so you may as well make up +your mind to it.” + +“And Mr. Craigin,” continued the doctor, “we shall need some things out +of your stores.” + +Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. “Your +time is waiting you, men. And listen to me. If any man goes near that +there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've got the law and +I'll do it, so help me God.” He went into the office and returned in a +moment with a Winchester, which he loaded in full view of the men. + +“Never mind him, boys,” said the doctor cheerily, “I'm going to have +breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you.” + +In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in his +hand, to find the men still waiting his orders and Craigin on guard with +his Winchester. + +“Don't go just yet,” said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, “we'll +get round him.” + +“Oh, he'll not shoot,” said Dr. Bailey. + +“He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. He'll shoot and he'll kill, +too.” + +For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him +waiting his lead. Craigin with his rifle held them all in check. A +moment's thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward Craigin +and said in a clear voice, “Mr. Craigin, these stores are necessary to +save these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to take them. Murder +me, if you like.” + +“Hear me, men.” Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. “These stores +are in my charge. I am an officer of the law. If any man lays his hand +on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God.” + +“Hear me, Mr. Craigin,” replied Dr. Bailey. “I'm here in consultation +with Dr. Haines, who has turned over this matter to my charge. In a case +of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. This whole camp is under +his authority. These stores are necessary, and I am going to get them.” + He well knew the weak spot in his position, but he counted on Craigin's +nerve breaking down. In that, however, he was mistaken. Without haste, +but without hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. When three +paces from it Craigin's voice arrested him. + +“Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, you're a +dead man!” + +Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men with +varying cries rushed toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. +Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, the smoking +rifle dropping from his hand. + +“Begob, I niver played baseball,” cried Tommy, rushing in and seizing +the rifle, “but many's the time I've had the divarsion in the streets av +Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick.” + +A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's life. +They carried Craigin into the office and laid him on the bed, the blood +streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quickly Dr. Bailey got to +work and before Craigin had regained consciousness the wound was sewed +up and dressed. Then giving him over to the charge of Haines, Dr. Bailey +went about the work he had in hand. + +Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered to +be in various stages of diphtheria were comfortably housed in a roomy +building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, with a +small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate in charge. And before night had +fallen the process of disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, +and cookery was well under way, while all who had been in immediate +contact with the infected men had been treated by the doctor with +antitoxin as a precautionary measure. + +Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue still +undecided, but the chances for winning were certainly greater than they +had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able to take command +again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for the next two days, +the work on the dump was prosecuted with all vigour, the men feeling in +honour bound to support the doctor in that part of the fight which fell +to them. + + + + +XVIII + +THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + + +Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, good-humoured face, +which usually wore a smile indicating content with the world and +especially with himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was beating +him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing in General Manager Fahey +to have a look at things. It was important to awaken the sympathy of the +General Manager, if, indeed, this could be accomplished. But the General +Manager had a way of insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and +this stretch in Maclennan's charge was the one spot which the General +Manager feared would occasion delay. + +“There's the hole,” said Maclennan, as they turned down the hill into +the swamp. “Into that hole,” he continued, pointing to where the dump +ended abruptly in the swamp, “I can't tell you how many millions of +carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was never beaten in my +life, but that hole--” + +“Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or trestled, and +we can't wait too long, either.” + +The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of energy +in railroad construction that refused to consider obstacles. Nothing +could stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the weight of +his determination simply had to move in one direction or other. The +contractor that failed expected no mercy, and received none. + +“We're doing our best,” said Maclennan, “and we will continue to do our +best. Hello! what's this? What's Craigin doing up here? Hold up, Sandy. +We'll look in.” + +At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met him. + +“Hello, Doctor! What have you got here?” + +“Isolation hospital,” replied the doctor shortly. + +“What hospital?” + +“Isolation.” + +“Has Craigin gone mad all at once?” + +“Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a new boss in camp.” + +A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. Haines was +beginning to enjoy himself. + +“A new boss? What do you mean?” + +“What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into this +camp three days ago, raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up Craigin +with a broken head, and took charge of the camp.” Maclennan stood in +amazement looking from Haines to the General Manager. + +“Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do with it? +And how did Craigin come to allow him?” + +“Ask Craigin,” replied Haines. + +“What have you got in there, Doctor?” asked Mr. Fahey. + +“Diphtheria patients.” + +“How many?” + +“Well, we began with eight three days ago and we've ten to-day.” + +“Well, this knocks me out,” said Maclennan. “Where's Craigin, anyway?” + +“He's down in his own room in bed.” + +Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. “Come on, Fahey,” he said, +“let's go down. Something extraordinary has happened. You can't believe +that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?” + +Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any +situation. “I can't help it, Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of cigars +that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. But it's no +laughing matter,” continued the General Manager, sobering up. “This has +a very serious aspect. There are a whole lot of men sick in our camps. +You contractors don't pay enough attention to your health.” + +“Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time to +think of health.” + +“I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of +health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that string +of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never +should have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either +shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or something; +they're not fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my +theory is that every camp should have an hospital, with three main +hospitals along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is filled, +overflowing. A young missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out +at Kuskinook supported by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, +too; but it's overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss +Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the +fellows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I get sick send me to +her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three first-class men, +with three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the health +department in first-class condition. The men would stay with us. We'd +get altogether better results.” + +“That's all right,” said Maclennan, “but where are you to get your +first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors or some big +bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man Haines. He +doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to +be different. He certainly knows his work and he never touches whiskey. +I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in +great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness or busy +he's all right, but when things get quiet he hits the green table hard. +He's a wonder at poker, they say.” + +The General Manager pricked up his ears. “Poker, eh? I'll remember +that.” + +“But this here business is going too far,” continued Maclennan. “I +didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to +say.” + +As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook. + +“Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?” + +“Good-day, cook,” said Maclennan. “Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few +minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin.” + +Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, “M'sieu +Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed.” + +“Why, what's the matter with him?” + +Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de +office you see de docteur.” + +“Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him.” + +“Hain!” said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. “Dat's no docteur for +one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. +He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree, +four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de +cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come +on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose +seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!” + +The smile broadened on Fahey's face. “I say, Maclennan, he's captured +your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure.” + +The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and +passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey +in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence +and backed him out into the office. + +“Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan,” he said, “he's asleep and must not be +disturbed.” + +Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold “How are you,” and introduced +him to Mr. Fahey. + +“Is Mr. Craigin ill?” inquired Fahey innocently. + +“He has met with a slight accident,” replied the doctor. “He is doing +well and will be about in a day or two.” + +“Accident?” snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a speech +he began in a loud tone, “Dr. Bailey, I must say--” + +“Excuse me,” said the doctor, opening the office door and marshalling +them outside, “we'd better go somewhere else if we are going to talk. +It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly quiet.” + The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same time +so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking meekly toward the +grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader +than ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the +face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner he found it difficult to +rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in bluster. + +“Upon my word, Dr. Bailey,” he burst forth when once they were inside +the grub-house, “it seems to me that you have carried things on with a +high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, you head a +mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely +no authority from anyone. What in the blank, blank do you mean, anyway?” + Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire. + +“Mr. Maclennan,” said the doctor quietly, “it is natural you should be +angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final judgment. +A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. Diphtheria. I +learned there were others suffering here with the same disease. I came +in at once to offer assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a +practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin objected. +There was some trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt.” + +“Dr. Bailey,” said the General Manager, “it will save trouble if you +will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact statement of +what occurred.” The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's attention to +the rugged face of the speaker, with its square forehead and bull-dog +jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with a man of more than +ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact statement of all +that had happened, beginning with the death of Scotty Anderson. + +“That is all, gentlemen,” said the doctor, as he concluded his tale; “I +did what I considered was right. Prompt action was necessary. I may have +been mistaken, but I think not.” + +“Mistaken!” cried Fahey, with a great oath. “I tell you, Maclennan, +we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that one man's death, +but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the condition in +which the doctor says they were, the results would have been not only +deplorable as far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us with +the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I +am proud to meet you,” continued Fahey, putting out his hand. “You had +a most difficult situation to deal with and you handled it like a +general.” + +“I quite agree with you,” said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by +the hand. “The measures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be +done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll send +him out.” + +“Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would +suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his +force.” + +“Well, well, we'll see, we'll see.” + +“Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be +busy just now and will excuse us.” + +The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. +Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the +sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. +Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon +the theme which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his +mind. + +“These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance--every +one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In +location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the +treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious +folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that +prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring +you will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention +of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a +magnificent site five hundred yards away,” pointing to a little plateau +further up the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. +“Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which +the men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some +of them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all +sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp +here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, +good heavens! they might at least have kept the vermin out.” + +“Oh, pshaw!” said Fahey, “every camp has to have a few of them fellows. +Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them +out.” + +“Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of +vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay,” + continued the doctor. “You would keep your men in good condition, in +good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay +with you. Besides, it would prevent scandal.” + +“Scandal?” The General Manager looked up sharply. + +“Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the +line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all over +the East in a few weeks.” + +The General Manager was thinking hard. “Look here, young man,” he said, +with the air of one who has made up his mind, “do you drink?” + +“No.” + +“Do you gamble?” + +“When I've nothing to do.” + +“Oh, well,” said Mr. Fahey, “a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and +then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will consider +favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this +line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not +much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't +answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I +don't care.” + +For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. “I +didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can +look at it.” + +Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it +again with more care. + +“You know Sir William?” + +“Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London.” + +“This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood +very high in the profession in London.” + +“I had a fairly good position,” said Dr. Bailey. + +“May I ask why you left?” + +Dr. Bailey hesitated. “I grew tired of the life--and, besides--well--I +wanted to get away from things and people.” + +“Pardon my asking,” said Fahey hastily. “It was none of my business. +But, Doctor--” here he glanced at the letter again, “Bailey, you say +your name is?” + +“They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go.” + +“Very well, sir,” replied Fahey quickly, “Bailey let it be. My offer +holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your +standing for less.” + +“Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. +When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping +it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much. +It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on +the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything.” + +“By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine,” said Fahey, with a laugh, +“so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are +supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we +will get it for you.” + +On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room +with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, “I +believe it was a put-up job with Tommy.” + +“It's a blank lie!” roared Craigin. “I have it from Tommy that it was +his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. +Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this +camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked +bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to +his business?” + +“Craigin,” he said quietly, “let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, +that's all. There, that's better.” + +Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back +in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine +and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment. + +“There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you +must be kept quiet.” As he said this he motioned them out of the room. +As he was leaving, Craigin called him back. + +“I want to see Maclennan,” he said gruffly. + +“Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin,” replied the doctor, in soothing +tones. + +“I want to see him now.” + +The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back. + +“Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I +was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or +three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's +I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor +here not to lay it up against me.” + +“All right, Craigin,” said Maclennan, “I'm glad to hear you say so. And +I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge.” + +Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went +to the bedside. “Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my +friend.” + +That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving +Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been +for some days. + + + + +XIX + +THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + + +Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode +at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as +a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the +occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital +was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, +but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. +Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the +new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts +and advocacy. “We want as matron,” Dick had written, “a strong, sane +woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She +must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more +beautiful she is the better.” + +“Cheery in manner and brave in heart?” Mrs. Macdougall had said to +herself, looking at the letter. “The very one! She is that and she is +all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. +Dick.” Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the +suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. “No, she'll +never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but--” Not even to +herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a +word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment. + +With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to +consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever “Barney's +mother.” + +“It would be a very fine work,” said Mrs. Boyle, “but oh, lassie! it is +a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!” + +“Why, Dick is not very far away.” + +“Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling +he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen +to you, and no one to care for you?” + +The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much +during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's +going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite +son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her +surrender showed deep upon her face. + +“What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?” said Ben, +breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. “There's one of the old +gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I +guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things +begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an' +Barney an' Dick--” + +“Och! Ben lad,” said Mrs. Boyle, “Margaret will be hearing that story +many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?” + +“Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after +Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?” + +“Aye, that she does,” remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that +Margaret flushed as she cried, “Not I! My business is to look after +other people.” + +But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that +Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do +better than take Ben along to “look after her,” as he put it. Hence, +before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest +valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to +hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. +And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff +and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on +errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid +movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of +joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the +clumsiness of the other leg in comparison. + +“W'en it comes to legs,” Ben would say, “this 'ere's the machine fer me. +It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh +cawn't freeze it with forty below.” + +As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious +appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The +institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an +object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood +unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the +matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, +a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something +sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In +fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that +it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various +powers and graces. + +It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's +foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a +serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to +which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already +overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge +of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease +Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his +invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul +of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm +friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take +Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which +he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons +associated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He +had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself +was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify +his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any +liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, +however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, +Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and +methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those +down the line. + +It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually +vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the +Kuskinook hospital and its belongings. + +“It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have +the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the +thrick, so they do.” + +“I guess they're all right fer simple cases,” agreed Ben, “but w'en yeh +git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!” + +“Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion +t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! +Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's +a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!” + +“Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?” inquired Ben, with fine +scorn. + +“Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin +ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him +alive, an' so I will.” + +“Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate,” said Ben, with studied, +politeness, “that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've +seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done,” displaying +his wooden leg and foot with pride. “But what I say is that w'en it +comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard +Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!” + +“Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the +same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the +railway?” + +“I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general,” replied +Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, “but I'm talkin' about this 'ere +preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle.” Ben's attention to the finer +courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. “An' that +I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more +fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire.” + +“Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?” + +“Well,” said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, “I hain't got a +day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere +which--” + +“Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man +from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their +hats?” + +“As I was sayin',” continued Ben, “there's two churches up the +Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by +them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you”--here +Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the +bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at +Tommy's face--“I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere +hinstitution!” And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude +of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was +without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or +her opinions was impossible to him. + +“An' what's more,” continued Ben, “this 'ere hinstitution in which we're +a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' +them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!” And still Tommy +remained silent. + +“An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' +Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, +an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They +wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers +an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money +'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the +same.” + +“Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the +docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?” + +“Yes, that's w'at I 'ear,” conceded Ben. “But e'll soak 'em good at +poker.” + +“Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “An' +it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair +aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid +lights'--” + +“'Red lights'?” interrupted Ben. “Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the +'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'.” + +“Who did, thin?” + +“Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.” + +“Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.” + +“Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, +beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his +rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's +violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' +the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole +blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the +jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!” + +“Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the +docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor +av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last +year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?” + +“No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.” + +“Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.” + +“My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried Ben, +whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking. + +“Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a +batin'!” + +“I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben scornfully, +“but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. +But as fer this 'ere preacher--” + +“Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's +worth--” + +“Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a +good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections +thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' +jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's voice +rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of +this 'ere hinstitution--” + +“Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the +Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand--Howly Moses! here she +comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!” + +“Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well +to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice +eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit. + +“Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said the gallant +little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's better than the +sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.” + +“Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on +like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to +blarney.” + +“Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I +haven't the strength to do that same.” + +“Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, +I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse +and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing +my annual report.” + +“Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods +an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' +ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.” + +And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's +inability to take thought for herself. + +The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there +stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied +loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas +fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled +with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side +climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to +the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay +like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new +railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west +the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay +Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new +spring dress. + +For some moments Dick stood gazing. “Of all views I see, this is the +best,” he said. “Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it +always brings me rest and comfort.” + +“Rest and comfort?” echoed Margaret, coming to his side. “Yes, I +understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, +Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its +light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long.” + +“I understand,” replied Dick, slowly. “Barney used to say the same about +the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill.” + +Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each +was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the +name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the +thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with +every deeper throb. + +“Come, this won't do,” said Margaret, almost sharply. + +“No, it won't do,” replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's +heart. + +“I am struggling with my report,” said Margaret in a business-like tone. +“What shall I say? How shall I begin?” + +“Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that +will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily +Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of +maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and +hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook.” + +“Hush, Dick,” said Margaret softly. “You are forgetting the man who +travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick +and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, +watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them +till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital +cannot cure.” + +“Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of +this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and +in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook +any time they happen to be saying their prayers.” + +“Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?” + +“Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--” + +“What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!” + +“Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have been but for +that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a +sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established +hospitals, and all that sort of thing.” + +“So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile. + +“Got what?” + +“Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. +Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.” + +“Is that so?” replied Dick, laughing. “Well, there are some who have +escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've +got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him.” + +“And yet they say he is--” + +“Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. But +he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big +fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The +Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was +fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd +leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British +army in India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, +one of them an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These +people were their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to +write to the Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining +the Church. Well, you remember the big meeting called to protest against +this vice? The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the +'Liberal' side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying +up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for me. In came Dr. +Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and then went for +them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he +crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor +of The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by +turns. The crowd simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with +the men. They passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. +Quite true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and +stayed at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all +the more because I am told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' and his +gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but +he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort at bottom.” + +“To hear Tommy talk,” replied Margaret, “you would make up your mind +he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his ways and +doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their luck. +Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the +comparative merits of the doctor and yourself.” + +“Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough,” said Dick earnestly, “that +you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me feel safer to think +that he is here.” + +“Ben will agree with you,” replied Margaret, “I assure you. He assumes +full care of me and of the whole institution.” + +“Good boy, Ben,” said Dick, heartily. “And he is a kind of link to that +old home and--with the past, the beautiful past, the past I like to +think of.” The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening its +lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and unrest. + +“A beautiful past it was,” replied Margaret gently. “We ought to be +thankful that we have it.” + +“Have you heard anything?” inquired Dick. + +“No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after her +arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know where he had +gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no +word since.” + +Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud. + +“Never mind, Dick, boy,” said Margaret, laying her hand upon his head as +if he had been a child, “it will all come right some day.” + +“I can't stand it, Margaret!” groaned Dick, “I shut it out from me for +weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my cursed folly that +wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, for all I know, +and mine!” + +“You must not say wrecked,” replied Margaret. + +“What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would +say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing left in +this that can atone!” + +“That, too, you must not say, Dick,” said Margaret. “God has something +yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has given. The best is +always before us. Besides,” she continued eagerly, “He has given you all +this work to do, this beautiful work.” + +The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. “Yes, yes, I must not +forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to work. +What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help +the heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word +of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of sight. He +pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not +for myself. If there were only one word to know he was doing well, was +safe!” He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. +“Margaret, do you think God will give me this?” His voice was hoarse +with the intensity of his passion. “Do you know, I sometimes feel that I +don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, +honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me +if only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for +you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my love of my +Lord, I'd give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful +night and not a word! It eats and eats and eats into me here,” he smote +himself hard over his heart, “till the actual physical pain is at times +more than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?” he continued, his +face quivering piteously. “Every time I think of God I think of Barney. +Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I +am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it long? +Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take away the pain? +Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!” + +“Hush, Dick!” said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she +understood only too well. “Hush! You must not doubt God. God forgives +and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain as +soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give +him back to us. I feel it here.” She laid her hand upon her heaving +breast. + +For some moments Dick was silent. “Perhaps so,” he said at length. “For +your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he will.” + +“Come,” said Margaret, “let us go out into the open air, into God's +sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and see the +Goat cavort.” She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At the door she +met Ben. “I won't be gone long, Ben,” she explained. + +“Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret,” replied Ben graciously. “An' +the longer yeh stay the better fer the hinstitution.” + +“That's an extremely doubtful compliment,” laughed Margaret, as they +passed down the winding path that made its way through the tall red +pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of +rock that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself +with her back against the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while +at her feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that +threw great clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It +was a sweet May day. All the scents and sounds of spring filled up +the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through the great feathering +branches gleamed patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long +aisles pillared with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought in +network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile +fury at the unmoved black rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's +edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges, hanging +trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the forest, were all +spring's myriad tender things wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's +ugliness. From the river below came gusts of misty wind, waves of +sound of the water's many voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly +ministries got about the spirit, healing, soothing, resting. + +With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches +wave about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods +around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed +from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the road again. + +“You don't know how good this is, Margaret,” he said, “all this about +me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could +bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! +if only you could let me hope that some day--” + +“Look, Dick!” she cried, springing to her feet, “there's the train.” + +It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like +some great jointed reptile through the woods below. + +“Tell me, Margaret,” continued Dick, “is it quite impossible?” + +“Oh, Dick!” cried the girl, her face full of pain, “don't ask me!” + +“Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?” + +She clasped her hands above her heart. “Dick,” she cried piteously, “I +can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While Barney lives I +could not be true and be another's wife.” + +“While Barney lives!” echoed Dick blankly. “Then God grant you may +never be mine!” He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of his +shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. “Come, let +us go,” he said. “There will be letters and I must get to work.” + +“Yes, Dick dear,” said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, “there's +always our work, thank God!” + +Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was +to them, as to many others, God's salvation. + +There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but +one among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from Iola. She +caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was +not mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of +her season's triumph with Wagner. “It has been a great, a glorious +experience,” wrote Iola. “I cannot be far from the top now. The critics +actually classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am +tired out. The doctors say there is something wrong, but I think it is +only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but +I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I +want--oh, fool that I was!--I may as well out with it--I want Barney. +I have no shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to +come. But he would not. He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you +at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. Sometimes I am +afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think that is it. I +am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is the best. If you +have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, this letter +has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is sore. But +I must let it go.” The tears were streaming down Margaret's face as she +read. + +“Read it, Dick,” she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into his hands. + +Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word. + +“Oh, where is he?” cried Margaret, wringing her hands. “If we only +knew!” + +“The date is a month old,” said Dick. “I think one of us must go. You +must go, Margaret.” + +“No, Dick, it must be you.” + +“Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember--” + +“Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go.” + +“For Barney's sake,” said Dick, with a sob in his throat. “Yes, I'll +go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in the Big Horn +Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! if I could +only bring her back for him, dear old boy! God give me this!” + +“Amen,” said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and dies +hard. + + + + +XX + +UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + + +The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country +into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over high mountain +shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who +knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the +canyon. True enough, there were a number of lift-outs and two rather +long portages that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had +skill with the paddle and knew the water he might avoid these by running +the rapids. Men from the Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, +like all true canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of +the rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not +so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the canoeman happened +to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet +water by the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into the swift +water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper of the stopping +place at the Landing, said, “She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak +one oiseau.” + +There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big Horn, +and Dr. Bailey had been urgently summoned. The upper camp lay on the +other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more from the steel. +The lake itself was six miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at +least twice that. Hence, though there would be some stiff paddling in +the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his choice of route. He knew +his canoe and loved every rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the +woodsman's trick of going light. A blanket, a tea pail which held his +grub, consisting of some Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a +little tea and sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so +that he could make the portages in a single carry. Many a mile had he +gone, thus equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up +and down these valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the +railroad, lumber, and tie camps, and more recently in the new-planted +mining towns. + +It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would help him +in his fight with the current and coming down it would be glorious. +The sun was just appearing over the row of pines that topped the low +mountain range to the east when he packed his kit and blankets under the +gunwale in the bow and slipped his canoe into the water. He was about to +step in when a voice he had not heard for many days arrested him. + +“Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday? He +was--By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!” + +It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift +steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked +him swiftly apart. + +“Ben,” he said, in a low, stern voice, “not a word. I once did you a +good turn?” + +Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech. + +“Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know now.” + +“But--but Miss Margaret and Dick--” gasped Ben. + +“They don't know,” interrupted the doctor, “and must not know. Will you +promise me this, Ben?” + +“By Jove, Barney! I don't--I don't think--” + +“Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?” + +“Yes, by the livin'--” + +“Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old days.” + The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl. + +“You bet, Bar--Doctor!” he cried. + +“Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad.” + +He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above +the falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat. + +“Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!” sang out Duprez. “You cache hup de +preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night.” + +“What? Who?” + +“De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp on de +Beeg Fall, s'pose.” + +Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. “Went up last night, did he?” + +“Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send for +M'sieu Boyle.” + +“Did he go up alone?” + +“Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe.” + +It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should +fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at all costs, +he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his +canoe, calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve. +He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own ingenuity +to avoid the meeting he dreaded. + +“All right, Duprez! bon jour.” + +“Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' de +portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?” + +“No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her.” + +“Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur,” answered Duprez, shrugging his +shoulders. “Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!” + +“Don't worry about me,” cried the doctor. “Just watch me take this +little riffle.” + +“Bien!” cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy and, +with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point where the +stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to the +falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra weight +on his paddle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigilance +which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the +cause, when the swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his +strength and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream and going +down the rapids. + +“Mon Dieu!” cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot to +the other. “A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come out on de +heddy!” + +The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the +frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy and +gradually edged her into the quiet water. + +“You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!” cried Duprez, as the doctor +paddled slowly up the edge past him. “You bes' pass on de portage. Not +many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca.” + +“All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all.” + +Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the thing +before and he was not to be beaten now. As the eddy bore him toward the +swift water again he carefully gauged the angle of attack, so that +when the nose of the canoe entered the riffle, with the trick that all +canoemen know, he held her up firm against the water, and, with no very +great effort, but by skilful manipulations of the force of the current, +he shoved her gradually across the riffle into the slow water near +the farther bank, and with a triumphant wave of the paddle disappeared +around the bend. + +“He's good man,” said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all this +time to recover from the shock of Barney's sudden appearance. “But de +preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night.” + +“Did, eh?” answered Ben. “Well, he didn't put in three summers on the +Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the canoe, an' so's his bro--that +is--the doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!” Ben was much excited. + +“Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for sure!” + +Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, taking +advantage of every eddy and cross current, stealing along the bank under +the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting his canoe +over rocky bits, till near mid-day he found himself at the portage below +the Long Rapid. + +“Guess I'll camp on the other side,” he said, talking aloud after +the manner of men who live much alone. He adjusted his paddles on the +thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, and, +taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the half mile portage without +a “set down.” + +“There,” he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, “my legs are +better than my arms. Now we'll grub.” He unpacked his tea pail, cut his +bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a fire, drew a pail of +water, threw in a handful of tea, swung it by a poplar sapling over the +fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. In fifteen minutes his meal was +ready--such a meal as can be had only in the mountains under the open +sky and at the end of a ten-mile paddle against the stream of the Big +Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched himself in the warm +spring sun for half an hour's quiet think. The old restlessness was +coming back upon him. His work as Medical Superintendent of the railway +construction was practically completed. The medical department was +thoroughly organized and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much +over so far as he was concerned. And with the easing of the strain there +came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the last three years +driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his professional +honour demanded that he should hold his post and do his work, he had +long ago left a district where he was kept constantly in mind of what +he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the exercise of the most +assiduous care he had prevented a meeting with his brother during the +last three months. But in this he could not hope to be successful much +longer. Before his second pipe was smoked he had reached his resolve. +“I'll pull out of this,” he said, “once this Big Horn camp is cleaned +up.” + +He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a right +woodsman, slipped his canoe into the water, and set off again. His +meeting with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother +near him to-day. Everything was eloquent of those days they had spent +together on the upper reaches of the Ottawa. The flowing river, the open +sky, the wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping canoe spoke +to him of Dick. The fierce resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that +had been as a festering in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day +to have lost their stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with +every deep breath of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the +canoe, the buoyant gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling +into his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself singing, to the +rhythmic swing of paddle and shoulders, the old Habitant canoe song: + + + “En roulant ma boule roulant.” + + +As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he +sternly check himself and resolutely set another air going in his head, +only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to the old +song to which he and his brother had so often made their canoe slip in +those great days that now seemed so far away. + + + “En roulant ma boule,” + + +sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's clear +tenor from the bow. “Here, confound it! Quit it, I say!” he said aloud +savagely. + + + “En roulant ma boule roulant,” + + +in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. The +doctor almost dropped his paddle into the stream. + +“Heavens above!” he muttered. “What's that? Who's that?” + + + “Visa la noir, tua le blanc, + Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant,” + + +sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just that +way. With two swift heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe into the +overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled his canoe up +the bank after him. Down the river still came the song, and ever nearer. + + + “O fils du roi tu es mechant, + En roulant ma boule.” + + +The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to the +bank came the canoe, the singer sitting in the stern, his hat off and +his face showing brown against the fair hair. How strong he looked and +how handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride in his brother's +good looks. Yes, he was handsome as ever, and yet he was different. +“He's older, that's it,” said the man in the bushes, breathing hard. No, +it was not that altogether. There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon +the face. All at once the song ceased abruptly. The paddle was laid down +and the canoe allowed to drift. The current carried her still nearer +the shore. Every line in the face could now be seen. The man peering out +through the bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in +that grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument +of grief. The change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply the +gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and something else. This +was the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of the face and in +its place sadness, almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, sad +face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with unseeing gaze upon the +flowing water. The canoe was now almost abreast the hiding place in the +bushes and still drifting. Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his +face toward the sky, cried out, “I'll bring her back, please God, and +I'll find him, too!” The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped +under his hand. He threw himself face down and gripped his hands hard +into the moss as if to hold himself there. “A deer, I guess, but I must +get on,” he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, looking +out through the bushes, he saw the swaying figure of the man he most +longed and most dreaded to see of all men in the world fast disappearing +from his view. Twice he raised his hands to his lips to call after him, +but even as he did so a vision held his voice, the vision of a room in +a city far away, the girl he loved, and this man pressing hot kisses on +her face. + +“No,” he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, “let him +go.” But still with straining eyes he gazed after the swaying figure +till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he sank down on +the deep moss bank with the air of a man who has just passed through a +heavy fight. + +The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The brightness +had gone out of the light, the sweetness out of the air. A burning pain +filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old sore, which his +work for the sick and wounded had helped to heal over, had been torn +open afresh, and the first agony of it was upon him again. He arrived at +the upper camp late at night and weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled +on in his fight with the typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the +day, then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set off down the Big Horn, +resolved that ere a week had passed he would seek in some far land the +forgetting which here was impossible to him. + +Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without awakening +any rhythmic song in his heart. It was a heavy grind to be got through +with as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the canoe failed to +quicken his heart a single beat. It was still early in the forenoon when +he reached the Long Rapid. It was a dangerous bit of water, but without +a moment's considering he stood upright in his canoe and, casting a +quick glance down the boiling slope, he made his choice of passage. +Then getting on his knees he braced them firmly against the sides of his +canoe and before he was well ready found himself in the smooth, steep +pitch at the crest of that seething incline of plunging water. Two +long swallowlike swoops, then a mad plunging through a succession of +buffeting, curling waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed +through, a great heave or two over the humping billows at the foot, then +the swirl of the eddy caught him, and lifted him clear over into the +quiet water. One minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left +behind. + +“Didn't take that quite right,” he grumbled. “Ought to have lifted her +sooner. Next time I'll get through dry. Next time?” he repeated. “God +knows if there'll ever be any next time of that water for me.” He +paddled round the eddy toward the shore, intending to dump the water +out of his canoe. “Hello! What in thunder is that?” Up against the +driftwood, where it had been carried by the eddy, a canoe was floating +bottom upwards. “God help us!” he groaned. “It's his canoe! My God! +My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd run these rapids. That's his +style. Oh, why didn't I call him? We could have done it together +safe enough!” He stood up in his canoe and searched eagerly among the +driftwood. “Dick! Dick!” he called over and over again in the wild cry +of a wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and examined it. “Ah, +that's where he hit the rocks, just at the foot. But he shouldn't drown +here,” he continued, “unless they hit him. Let's see, where would that +eddy take him?” For another anxious minute he stood observing the run +of the water. “If he could keep up three minutes,” he said, “he ought +to strike that bar.” With a few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand +bar. “Ha!” he cried. A paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark. +“That never floated there.” He leaped out and drew up his canoe, then, +dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the bar. There on the +sand was stamped the print of an open hand. “Now, God be thanked!” he +cried, lifting his hands toward the sky, “he's reached this spot. He's +somewhere on shore here.” Like a dog on scent he followed up the marks +to the edge of the forest where the bank rose steeply over rough rocks. +Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the alert for any sign. He reached +the top. A quick glance he threw around him, then with a low cry he +rushed forward. There, stretched prone on the moss, a little pile of +brushwood near him, with his match case in his hand, lay his brother. +“Oh, Dick, boy!” he cried aloud, “not too late, surely!” He dropped +beside the still form, turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his +heart. “Too late! Too late!” he groaned. Like a madman he rushed out +of the woods, flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his canoe, +seized his bag and scrambled back again. Again, and more carefully, he +felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could detect a feeble flutter. +Hurriedly he seized his flask and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured +a few drops of the whiskey down the throat. But there was no attempt +to swallow. “We'll try it this way.” With swift fingers he filled his +syringe with the whiskey and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited +with his hand upon the feebly fluttering heart. “My God! it's coming, I +do believe!” he cried. “Now a little strychnine,” he whispered. “There, +that ought to help.” + +Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and +blanket. In five minutes he had a fire going and his tea pail swung over +it with a little more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes more +he had half a cup of hot tea ready. By this time the heartbeat could be +detected every moment growing stronger. Into the tea he poured a little +of the stimulant. “If I can only get this down,” he muttered, chafing at +the limp hands. Once more he lifted the head, pried open the shut +jaws, and tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down. After repeated +attempts he succeeded. Then for the first time he observed that his +hands were covered with blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining +the back of it, detected a great jagged wound. “Looks bad, bad.” He felt +the bone carefully and shook his head. “Fracture, I fear.” Heating some +more water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he spent +in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing every precious +moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to come +slowly back. “Now I must get him to the hospital.” + +There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and there +were no portages. With swift despatch he cut a large armful of balsam +boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his canoe, cutting +out the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and picking his steps +with great care, he carried him to the canoe and laid him upon the +balsam boughs on his right side. The moment the weight came upon that +side a groan burst from the pallid lips. “Something wrong there,” + muttered the doctor, turning him slightly over. “Ah, shoulder out. I'll +just settle this right now.” By dexterous manipulation the dislocation +was reduced, and at once the patient sank down upon the bed of boughs +and lay quite still. A little further stimulation brought back the heart +to a steadier beat. “Now, my boy,” he said to himself, as he took his +place kneeling in the stern of the canoe, “give her every ounce you +have.” For half an hour without pause, except twice to give his patient +stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept their rhythmic +swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe and in a minute more was +at the Landing. + +“Duprez! Here, quick!” The doctor stood in the door of the stopping +place, wet as if he had come from the river, his voice raucous and his +face white. + +“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Frenchman, “what de mattaire?” + +The doctor swept a glance about the room. “Sick man,” he said briefly. +“I want this bed. Get your buckboard, quick.” He seized the bed and +carried it out before the eyes of the astonished Duprez. + +Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time the +bed had been arranged on the buckboard he had his horse between the +shafts. + +“Now then, Duprez, give me a hand,” said the doctor. + +“Certainment. Bon Dieu! Dat's de bon preechere! Not dead, heh?” + +“No,” said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face while he +placed his fingers upon the pulse. “No. Now get on. Drive carefully, but +make time.” + +In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, which +was well graded and smooth. Duprez sent along his pony at a lope and in +a short space of time they reached the door of the hospital, where they +were met by Orderly Ben Fallows on duty. + +“Barney! By the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!” cried Ben. “What on +earth--” + +But the doctor cut him short. “Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get a +bed ready with warm blankets and hot water bottles. Go, man! Don't gape +there!” + +Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up the +stair as fast as his wooden leg would allow him. He reached the office +door. “Miss Margaret,” he gasped, “Barney's at the door with a sick man. +Wants a bed ready. We 'aven't got one--and--” + +The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words. +“Barney?” she said, rising slowly to her feet. “Barney?” she said again, +her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. “What do you mean, Ben?” + The words came slowly. + +“He wants a bed for a sick man and we 'aven't--” + +Margaret took a step toward him. “Ben,” she said, in breathless haste, +“get my room ready. But first tell Nurse Crane to come to me quick. Go, +Ben.” + +The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands she +shut the door, turned toward her desk, and there stood, both hands +pressed hard to her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous +tides that surged through her heart and thundered in her ears. “Barney! +Barney!” she whispered. “Oh, Barney, at last!” The blue eyes were wide +open and all aglow with the tender light of her great love. “Barney,” + she said over and over, “my love, my love, my--ah, not mine--” A sob +caught her voice. Over her desk hung a copy of Hoffman's great picture, +the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. “O +Christ!” she cried brokenly, “I, too! Help me!” A knock came to the +door, Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned toward her desk +again. + +“Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient,” said the nurse. + +“Dr. Bailey?” echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her trembling +hands fluttering among the papers on the desk. “Go to him, Nurse, and +get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment.” + +Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the +Christ, the words of the great submission ringing through the chambers +of her soul. “Not my will but Thine be done.” She pressed nearer the +picture, gazing into that strong, patient, suffering face through the +rain of welcome tears. “O Christ!” she whispered, “dear blessed Christ! +I understand--now. Help me! Help me!” Then, after a pause, “Not my will! +Not my will!” + +The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood in +the corner of her office, bathed her eyes, smoothed away the signs of +struggle from her face, and went forth serene to her duty and her cross. +In the hall she met Barney. With a quick, light step she was at his +side, both hands stretched out. “Barney!” “Margaret!” was all they said. +For a moment or two Barney stood holding her hands, gazing without a +word into the sweet face, so pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong. +Twice he essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat. Turning +abruptly away he pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on the +camp bed. + +“I've brought--you--Dick,” at last he said hoarsely. + +“Dick! Hurt? Not--” She halted before the dreaded word. + +“No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope--” + +“The room is ready,” said Nurse Crane. + +At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate +demands of their common duty. They had work to do, and they had trained +themselves to obey without thought of self that Divine call to serve +the suffering. Together they toiled at their work, Margaret noting with +delighted wonder the quick fingers and the finished skill that +cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in the head and made thorough +examination for other injury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the +efficiency of the silent, steady helper at his side whose quick eye and +hand anticipated his every want. At length their work was done and they +stood looking down upon the haggard face. + +“He is resting now,” said Barney, in a low voice. “The fracture is not +serious, I think.” + +“Poor Dick,” said Margaret, passing her hand over his brow. + +At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney quickly +stepped back out of sight. For a moment or two the eyes wandered about +the room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, inquiring gaze. + +“What is it, Dick, dear?” said Margaret, bending over him. + +For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if seeking +something. + +“I know. The letter, Dick?” A look of intelligence lighted the eye. +“That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to Barney. Barney is here, you +know.” + +A hand grasped her arm. “Hush!” said Barney in stern command. “Say +nothing about me.” But she heeded him not. For a moment longer the sick +man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of content overspread the +drawn features, then the look of intelligence faded and the eyes closed +wearily. + +“Come,” said Barney, moving toward the door, “he is better quiet.” + +Leaving the nurse in charge, they went together toward the office. + +“Where did you find him?” asked Margaret as she gave Barney a seat. Then +Barney told her the story of how he had chanced upon the canoe and had +discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods. + +“It was God's leading, Barney,” said Margaret gently, when the story +was done; but to this he made no reply. “Is there serious danger, do you +think?” she inquired in an anxious voice. + +“He will recover,” replied Barney. “All he requires is careful nursing, +and that you can give him. I shall wait till to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow? And then?” + +“I am leaving this country next week.” + +“Leaving the country? And why?” + +“My work here is done.” + +“Surely there is much yet to do, and you have just begun to do such +great things. Why should you leave now?” + +Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pondering an answer. +“Margaret, I must go,” he finally burst forth. “You know I must go. I +can't live within touch of him and forget!” + +“Forgive, you mean, Barney.” + +“Well, forgive, if you like,” he replied sullenly. + +“Barney,” replied Margaret earnestly, “this is unworthy of you, and +in the face of God's mercy to-day how can you hold resentment in your +heart?” + +“How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three years I have fought it, +but it is there. It is there!” He struck his hand hard upon his breast. +“I can't forget that he ruined my life! But for him I believe in my +soul I should have won--her to me! At a critical moment he came in and +ruined--” + +“Barney! Barney, listen to me!” cried Margaret impetuously. + +Barney sprang to his feet. + +“No, you must listen to me. Sit down.” Barney obeyed her word and sat +down. “Now, hear me, and hear me fairly. I am not going to say that Dick +was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was the greater I can't +tell. They were both young and, to a certain extent, inexperienced in +the ways of life. Circumstances threw them much together and on terms of +almost brotherly and sisterly intimacy. That was a mistake. They ignored +conventions that can never be safely ignored. Just at that time Dick's +life was made hard for him. His Church had rejected him.” + +“Rejected him?” + +“Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was +branded as a heretic and outcast from work.” Margaret's voice grew +bitter. “Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not help +it--I can't say--but he grew hard. Yes, and worse than that, grew away +from his faith, from his friends, and from those things that keep men +straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation came upon him. +You and I have seen enough of that side of life to know what that means. +He broke faith with you--no, not with you. He was loyal to you, but he +broke faith with himself and with her. For a single moment, that moment +at which you appeared, he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, +has he suffered since that moment. How terribly no one knows. He has +tried to find you, but you would not be found. He wronged you, Barney, +but you have made him and all of us suffer much.” The voice that had +gone on so bravely and so firmly here suddenly trembled and broke. + +“Made you suffer!” cried Barney, with bitter scorn. “How can you speak +of suffering? You have everything! I have lost all!” + +“Everything?” echoed Margaret faintly. “Ah, Barney, how little you know! +But, no matter, God has brought you together and you must not do this +wicked thing. You must not continue to break our hearts.” + +“Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a heart, +too, and a brother whom I loved and trusted as myself, yes, more than +myself, and--I had--Iola. All I have lost. My work satisfies me for a +few months, but try as I can this awful thing hunts me down and drives +me mad. There is nothing in life left for me. And there might have been +much but for--” + +“Stop, Barney!” cried Margaret impulsively. “There is much still left +for you. God is good. How much better than we. You can't forgive a +fellow-sinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, and surely you +ought to try--” + +“Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't tried? +That thing is there! there!” smiting on his breast again. “Can you tell +me how to rid myself of it?” + +“Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do this +for you. Listen,” she said, putting up her hand to stay his words, “God +is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to soften you. Here, +read this.” She handed him Iola's letter, went to the window, and stood +with her back to him, looking out upon the great sweeping valley below. + +“Margaret!” The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, proud, +sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His lips were quivering, his hands +trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. “Margaret,” he cried +brokenly, “what does this mean?” He was terribly shaken. + +“It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going +to-morrow to bring her back to you, Barney. That was his one desire.” + +“To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old boy! and +I--Oh, Margaret!” He put his trembling hands out to her. “Forgive me! +God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!” He started toward the door. +“No, not how,” he cried, striving in vain to control himself. “I am mad! +mad! For three long years I have carried this cursed thing in my heart! +It's gone! It's gone, Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!” He was shouting +aloud. “I feel right toward Dick, my brother!” + +“Hush, Barney dear,” said the girl, tears running down her face, “you +will wake him.” + +“Yes, yes,” he cried, in an eager whisper, “I'll be careful. Poor old +boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick! And she wants me! I'll go +to-night! Yes, to-night! What's the date?” He tore at the envelope with +trembling hands. The letter dropped to the floor. Margaret caught it up +and opened it for him. “A month ago and more! Yes, I'll go to-night. +Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! I can't get myself in hand.” + Suddenly he threw himself into his chair. “Here!” he ground out between +his teeth, “get quiet!” He sat for a few moments absolutely still, +gathering strength to command himself. At length he got himself in hand. +“No,” he said in a quiet voice, “I shall not go tonight. I shall wait +till Dick is better. Just now he must be kept quiet. In the morning I +expect to see him very much himself. We can only wait and see.” + +Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold +himself in perfect control, Margaret quietly doing what was to be done, +her whole spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love which finds its +highest joy in the joy of another. At the break of day the nurse came to +the door and found them still waiting. + +“Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss Robertson.” + +“Let me go to him,” cried Barney. “Don't fear.” His voice was still +vibrating, but his manner was calm and steady. He was master of himself +again. + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “go to him.” Then as the door closed she stood +once more before the Gethsemane scene. “Thank God, thank God,” she said +softly, “for them the pain is over.” + +For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She opened +the door softly, went in and stood gazing till her eyes grew dim. On +the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, whose arm +was thrown about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of +rapturous peace. As Margaret moved to leave the room Dick called her in +a voice faint, but full of joy. + +“Margaret,” he said, a smile breaking like light through a dark cloud, +“my head was broken, but I'd have all the bones in my body broken, just +to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?” + +Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, but radiant with a +peace it had not known for many a day. “Yes, old chap,” he said in a +voice still tremulous in spite of all his self-command, “we're right +again, and, please God, we'll keep so.” + + + + +XXI + +TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + + +For three days Dick made steady progress toward health, but his progress +was slow. Any mental effort produced severe pain in his head and +sufficed to raise his temperature several points. As he gained in +strength and became more and more clear in his thinking his anxiety in +regard to his work began to increase. His congregations would be +waiting him on Sunday, and he could not bear to think of their being +disappointed. With no small effort had he gathered them together, and a +single failure on his part he knew would have disastrous effect upon +the attendance. He was especially concerned about the service at Bull +Crossing, which was at once the point where the work was the most +difficult, and, at the present juncture, most encouraging. Under his +instructions Barney sought to secure a substitute for the service at +Bull Crossing, but without result. Preachers were scarce in that country +and every preacher had more work in sight than he could overtake. And so +Dick fretted and wrought himself into a fever, until the doctor took him +sternly to task. + +“I don't see that it's your business to worry, Dick,” he said. “I +suppose you consider yourself as working under orders, and it is your +belief, isn't it, that the One who gives the orders is the One who has +laid you down here?” + +“That's true,” said Dick wearily, “but there's the people. A lot of +them come a long way. It's been hard to get them together, and I hate to +disappoint them.” + +“Well, we'll get someone,” replied Barney. “We're a pretty hard +combination to beat, aren't we, Margaret? There will be a man to take +the service at Bull Crossing if I have to take it myself--a desperate +resort, indeed.” + +“Why not, Barney?” asked Dick. “You could do it well.” + +“What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk a little with my fingers, +but my tongue is unconscionably slow.” + +“There was a man once slow of speech,” replied Dick quietly, “but he was +given a message and he led a nation into freedom.” + +Barney nodded. “I remember him. But he could do things.” + +“No,” answered Dick, “but he believed God could do things.” + +“Perhaps so. That was rather long ago.” + +“With God,” replied Dick earnestly, “there is no such thing as long +ago.” + +“All the same,” said Barney, “I guess these things don't happen now.” + +“I believe they happen,” replied his brother, “where God finds a man who +will take his life in his hand and go.” + +“Well, I don't know about that,” replied Barney, “but I do know that you +must quit talking and sleep. Now, hear me, drop that meeting out of your +mind. I'll look after it.” + +But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, he +found no one for the service at Bull Crossing next day. There was +still a slight hope that one of the officials of the congregation would +consent to be a stop-gap for the day. + +“I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret,” said Barney +laughingly. “Wouldn't the crowd stare? They'd hear the sermon of their +lives.” + +“It would be a good sermon, Barney,” replied Margaret quietly. “And why +should you not say something to the men?” + +“Nonsense, Margaret!” cried Barney impatiently. “You know the thing is +utterly absurd. What sort of man am I to preach? A gambler, a swearer, +and generally bad. They all know me.” + +“They know only a part of you, Barney,” said Margaret gently. “God knows +all of you, and whatever you have been you are no gambler today, and you +are not a bad man.” + +“No,” replied Barney slowly, “I am no gambler, nor will I ever be again. +But I have been a hard, bad man. For three years I carried hate in my +heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be forgiven. And that, I +believe, was the cause of all my badness. But--somehow--I don't deserve +it--but I've been awfully well treated. I deserved hell, but I've got +a promise of heaven. And I'd be glad to do something for--” He paused +abruptly. + +“There, you've got your sermon, Barney,” said Margaret. + +“What do you mean?” + +“'Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'” + +“It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me to +preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll get one of those fellows at the +Crossing to take the meeting.” + +On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the subject. + +“I'm not anxious, Barney,” he said, “but who's going to take the meeting +to-morrow night at Bull Crossing?” + +“Now, look here,” said Barney, “Monday morning you'll hear all about it. +Meantime, don't ask questions. Margaret and I are responsible, and that +ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail.” + +“No, nor you, Barney,” said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of +satisfaction. “I know it will be all right. Are you going down to-morrow +evening?” he inquired, turning to Margaret. + +“I?” exclaimed Margaret. “What would I do?” + +“Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good,” said Barney. +“You may have to preach yourself or hold my coat while I go in.” + +A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, and +the quick following pallor told Dick the thoughts that rushed through +Margaret's heart. + +“Yes,” said Dick gravely, “you will go down, too, Margaret. It will do +you good, and I don't need you here.” + +Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he +found himself so utterly blocked by unmanageable circumstances and +uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. He +confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in “Mexico's” + saloon toning up his system after his long illness, and whom he had +straightway carried off with him. + +“I guess it's either you or me, Tommy.” + +“Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an' divil a wan av the bhoys +will 'Mexico' git this night, wance the news gits about.” + +“Don't talk rot, Tommy,” said Barney angrily, for the chance of his +being forced to take his brother's place, which all along had seemed +to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With the energy of +desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon visiting, explaining, +urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of the members or adherents of the +congregation at Bull Crossing in whom might be supposed to dwell the +faintest echo of the spirit of the preacher. One after another, however, +those upon whom he had built his hopes failed him. One was out of +town, another he found sick in bed, and a third refused point blank +to consider the request, so that within a few minutes of the hour of +service he found himself without a preacher and wholly desperate, and +for the first time he seriously faced the possibility of having to take +the service himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's +parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and abruptly announced to her +his failure. + +“Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You know, I +can't,” he repeated, in answer to the look upon her face. “Why, it was +only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of hundred. He would +give a good deal more to get even. The crowd would hoot me out of +the building. Not that I care for that”--the long jaws came hard +together--“but it's just too ghastly to think of.” + +“It isn't so very terrible, Barney,” said Margaret, her voice and eyes +uniting in earnest persuasion. “You are not the man you were last week. +You know you are not. You are quite different, and you will be different +all your life. A great change has come to you. What made the change? You +know it was God's great mercy that took the bitterness out of your heart +and that changed everything. Can't you tell them this?” + +“Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that? What +would they say?” + +“Barney,” asked Margaret, “you are not afraid of them? You are not +ashamed to tell what you owe to God?” + +Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not +afraid, but his native diffidence, intensified by these recent years of +self-repression and self-absorption, had made all speech difficult to +him, but more especially speech that revealed the deeper movements of +his soul. + +“No, Margaret, I'm not afraid,” he said slowly. “But I'd rather have +them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit than get up and speak to +them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Margaret? How can +I do that?” + +“All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course,” she replied. +“But you will tell them just what you will.” + +With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a +desperate fight. His word passed to his brother must be kept. But soon +a deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His sense of +loyalty was touched. He knew himself to be a different man from the man +who, last week, in “Mexico's” saloon, had beaten his old antagonist at +the old game. His consciousness of himself, of his life purposes, of +his outlook, of his deepest emotions, was altogether a different +consciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pursuing restlessness +was gone and, in its place, a deep peace possessed him. The process by +which this had been achieved he could not explain, but the result was +undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an influence the source of which +he frankly acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of the +beaten and confounded pagan magic-workers came to him, “This is the +finger of God.” He could not deny it. Why should he wish to hide it? It +became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, that +there was a demand being made upon him as a man of truth and honour, and +as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility of his refusing +the demand presented itself to his mind, there flashed in upon him +the picture of a man standing in the midst of enemies, the flickering +firelight showing his face vacillating, terror-stricken, hunted. From +the trembling lips of the man he heard the words of base denial, “I know +not the man,” and in his heart there rose a cry, “O Christ! shall I do +this?” “No,” came the answer, strong and clear, from his lips, “I will +not do this thing, so help me God.” + +Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. “You won't?” + she said faintly. + +“I'll take the service,” he replied, setting the long jaws firmly +together. And with that they went forth to the hall. + +They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through Tommy +Tate it had been noised abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach. There were +wild rumors, too, that the doctor had “got religion,” although “Mexico” + and his friends scouted the idea as utterly impossible. + +“He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve,” was “Mexico's” verdict, +given with a full accompaniment of finished profanity. + +Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound +impression and to awaken an expectation that rose to fever pitch when +Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took their +places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played himself, and +Barney at the table upon which were the Bible and the Hymn-book. His +face wore the impenetrable, death-like mark which had so often baffled +“Mexico” and his gang over the poker table. It fascinated “Mexico” now. +All the years of his wicked manhood “Mexico” had, on principle, avoided +anything in the shape of a religious meeting, but to-day the attraction +of a poker player preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small +surprise that the crowd saw “Mexico,” with two or three of his gang, +make their way toward the front to the only seats left vacant. + +When it became evident beyond dispute that his old-time enemy was to +take the preacher's place, “Mexico” leaned over to his pal, “Peachy” + Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in an undertone +audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, “It's his old game. +He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got the cards.” + +But painful experience shook “Peachy's” confidence in his friend's +judgment on this particular point, and he only ventured to reply, “He's +got the lead.” “Peachy” preferred to await developments. + +The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fervour that marks the musical +part of any religious service in the West. But there was in the voices +that curious thrill that is at once the indication and the quickening of +intense excitement. + +“This here'll show what's in his hand,” said “Peachy,” when the moment +for prayer arrived. “Peachy” was not unfamiliar with religious services, +and had, with unusual keenness of observation, noted that when a man +undertook to pray he must, if he be true, reveal the soul within him. + +“Mexico” grunted a dubious affirmative. But “Peachy” was disappointed, +for in a voice reverent, but unimpassioned, the preacher for the day led +the people's devotions, using the great words taught those men long ago +who knew not how to pray, “Our Father who art in Heaven.” + +“Blanked if he ain't bluffed again! We've got to wait till he begins to +shoot, I guess,” said “Peachy,” mixing his figures. + +The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving debtor and the parallel +passage containing the matchless story of the sinful woman and the proud +Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, which had hitherto +carried the strident note of nervousness, mellowed into rich and +subduing fulness. The men listened with that hushed attention that they +give when words are getting to the heart. The utter simplicity of the +reader's manner, the dignity of his bearing, the quiet strength that +showed itself in every tone, and the undercurrent of emotion that +made the voice vibrate like a stringed instrument, all these, with the +marvellous authoritative tenderness of the great utterance on a theme so +closely touching their daily experience, gripped these men and held them +in complete thrall. + +When the reading was done the doctor stood for some moments looking his +audience quietly in the face. He knew them all, men from the camps and +the line, men from the hills and mining claims, men from the saloons +and the gambling hells. Many he had treated professionally, some he +had himself nursed back to health, others he had rescued from those +desperate moods that end in death. Others again--and these not a few--he +had “cleaned out” at poker or “Black Jack.” But to all of them he +was “white.” Not so to himself. It was a very humble man and a very +penitent, that stood looking them in the face. His first words were a +confession. + +“I am not worthy to stand here before you,” he began, in a low, clear +tone, “God knows, you know, and I know. I am here for two reasons: one +is that I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard Boyle”--here a gasp +of surprise was audible from one and another in the audience--“a man you +know to be a good man, better than ever I can hope to be.” + +“Durned if he is!” grunted “Peachy” to “Mexico.” “Ain't in the same +bunch!” + +“An' that's thrue fer ye,” answered Tommy. But “Mexico” paid no heed +to these remarks. He was staring at the speaker with the look of a man +wholly bewildered. + +“And the other reason is,” continued, the doctor, “that I have something +which I think it fair to tell you men. Like a lot of you, I have +carried a name that is not my own.” Here significant looks were gravely +exchanged. “They gave it to me by mistake when I reached the Pass. I +didn't care much at that time about names or anything else, so I let it +go. There are times in a fellow's life when he's not unwilling to forget +his name. My name is Boyle.” And then, in sentences simple, clean-cut, +and terse, he told of his boyhood days, the Old Mill, the two boys +growing up together, their love for and their loyalty to each other, +their struggles and their success. Then came a pause. The speaker had +obviously come to a difficult spot in his story. The men waited in +earnest, grave, and deeply moved expectation. “At that time a great +calamity came to me--no matter what--and it threw me clear off my +balance. I lost my head and lost my nerve, and just then--” again the +speaker paused, as if to gather strength to continue--“and just then +my brother did me a wrong. Not being in a condition to judge fairly, I +magnified the wrong a thousand-fold and I tried to tear my brother out +of my heart. I could not and I would not forgive him, and I couldn't +cease to love him. I lived a life of misery, misery so great that it +drove me from everything in earth that I held dear, and for three years +I went steadily down from bad to worse. I came to the Crow's Nest a year +and a half ago. My life since then most of you know well.” + +“Bedad we do! An' Hivin bliss ye!” burst forth Tommy Tate, who had found +the greatest difficulty in controlling his emotions of indignation and +grief during the doctor's self-condemnatory tale. At Tommy's words a +quiet thrill ran through the crowd, for few men of those present +but held the doctor in affectionate esteem. The sins of which he +was conscious and which humiliated him before them were, in their +estimation, but trivial. + +For a moment the speaker was thrown off his track by Tommy's outburst, +but, recovering himself, he went on. “It would be wrong to say that my +life here has been all bad. I have been able to serve many of you, +but my work has done far more for me than it has for you. But for it I +should have long ago gone down out of sight. I confess that it has been +a hard fight for me, an awful fight, to stay at my work, but the day +that I heard that my brother was your missionary brought me the hardest +fight I had had for many a day. I wanted to get away from the past. For +nearly four years I had been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I +had begun to forget a little, but that day it all came back. This week +I met my brother. I found him dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn +Valley. That morning my heart carried hell in it. To-day it is like what +I think heaven must be.” As he spoke these words a light broke over +his face, and again he stood silent, striving to regain control of his +voice. + +“Blanked if he don't hold the cards!” said “Mexico” in a thick voice to +“Peachy” Budd. + +“Full flush,” answered “Peachy.” + +“Mexico” was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his untutored +nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a man in torture. +His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy +eyebrows. + +“How it came about,” continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, “I am +not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it was God's great +mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of my heart. I +forgave my brother that day--and--God forgave me. That's all there is +to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come to me. I have got +my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the Old Mill.” A +sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and +the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to master the +emotions surging through his soul. + +Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. “Peachy” Budd was +swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, “Mexico's” swarthy face +betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the back of the +seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held under an +hypnotic spell. + +Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. “I have just a word +more to say. I would like to give credit for this that happened to me to +the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all +my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away +without owning this up before you. How He did it, I do not pretend +to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly +concerns me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. +And now I've got to square up some things. 'Mexico'--” At the sound of +his name “Mexico” started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, +with a quick motion, toward his hip--“I've taken a lot from you. I'd +like to pay it back.” The voice was humble, earnest, kind. + +“Mexico,” taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side of +his mouth, stood up and drawled out, “Haow? Me? Pay me back? Blanked if +you do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it?” + +“Yes, I played fair, 'Mexico,' but--” + +“Then go to hell!” “Mexico's” tone was not at all unfriendly, but his +vocabulary was limited, and he was evidently deeply stirred. “We're +squar' an'--an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put it thar!” + With a single stride “Mexico” was over the seat that separated him from +the platform and reached out his hand. The doctor took it in a hard +grip. + +“Look here, men,” he said, when “Mexico” had resumed his seat, “I've got +to do something with this money. I've got at least five thousand that +don't belong to me.” + +“'Tain't ours,” called a voice. + +“Men,” continued the doctor, “I'm starting out on a new track. I want +to straighten out the past all I can. I can't keep this money. I'd feel +like a thief.” + +But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and one and all protested +to each other, in tones that were quite audible over the hall and with +anathemas of more or less terrible import, that the money was not theirs +and that they would not touch it. The doctor listened for a minute or +more and then, with the manner of one closing a discussion, he said, +“All right. If you won't help me I'll have to find some way, myself, of +straightening this up. This is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and +I'm not any better than the rest of you, but I'd like to be a great deal +better man than I am, and, with God's help, I'm going to try. That's my +religion.” + +And with these words he sat down, leaving the people still staring at +him and waiting for something in the way of closing exercises to what +must have been the most extraordinary religious service in all their +experience. Softly, Margaret began to play the old hymn, “Nearer, My +God, to Thee!” The men, accepting it as a signal, rose to their feet and +began to sing, and with these great words of aspiration ringing through +their hearts they passed out into the night. + +Among the many who lingered to speak to the doctor were “Mexico,” + “Peachy,” and, of course, his faithful follower, Tommy Tate. “Mexico” + drew him off to one corner. + +“Say, pard,” he began, “you've done me up many a time before, but +blanked if yeh haven't hit me this time the worst yet! When you was +talkin' about them two little chaps--” here “Mexico's” hard face began +to work and his voice to quiver--“you put the knife right in here. I had +a brother once,” he continued in a husky voice. “I wish to God someone +had choked the blank nonsense out of me, for I done him a wrong an' I +wasn't man enough to own up. An' that's what started me in all this hell +business I've been chasin' ever since.” + +The doctor took him by the arm and walked him out of the room. “Take +Miss Robertson home,” he said to Tommy as he passed. + +An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly exhausted as his iron +nerve and muscle would allow him to be. “I say, Margaret, this thing is +wonderful! There's no explaining it by any physical or mental law that +I know.” Then, after a pause, he added, with an odd thrill of tenderness +in his voice, “I believe we shall hear good things of 'Mexico' yet.” + +And so they did, but that is another tale. + + + + +XXII + +THE HEART'S REST + + +There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than the +valley that runs back from that far penetrating arm of the sea, Loch +Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and gloomy glens, +one comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east and north +winds and open to the warm western sea and to the long sunny days of +summer. It is a valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents of +sea and heather, and shut in from the roar and rush of the great world, +just over the ragged rim of the craggy hills that guard it. A veritable +heaven on earth for the nerve-racked and brain-wearied, for the +heart-sick and soul-burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of +Ruthven Hall, a kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the valley's +head, to bring hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as +needed the healing that soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours +filled with love that understands, can give. + +To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh from +the shelter of her English home, the bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and +here for five happy summers they had come from the strenuous life of +Diplomatic Service to find rest. Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his +work was done, still a young man, to rest under the yews in the little +churchyard near the Hall, leaving his lady with her little daughter and +her infant son to administer his vast estates. After the first sharp +grief had passed, Lady Ruthven took up her burden and, with patient +courage, bore it for the sake of the dead first, and then for the sake +of the living. Round her son, growing into sturdy young manhood, her +heart's roots wound themselves, striking deep into his life, till one +day he, too, was laid beneath the yew trees in the churchyard. From that +deep shadow she came forth, bearing her cross of service to her kind, +to live a life fragrant with the airs of Heaven, in fellowship with Him +who, for love of man, daily gave Himself to die. + +It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of heart +and clean of life, that Jack Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and +its dwellers. The young men first met in London, and later in Edinburgh, +where both were pursuing their professions with a devotion that did not +forbid attention to sundry social duties, or prevent them from taking +long walks over the Lammermuirs on Saturday afternoons. To Ruthven +Hall, Alan was permitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he was +secretly convinced, stood sorely in need of just such benediction as +his saintly aunt could bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's coming to +Ruthven Hall was the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision +of his profession in the light of that great ministry to the world's +sick and wounded and weary by Him who came to the world “to heal.” In +another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it was +the day on which his eyes first fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. +Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven Hall, and thus +it fell that when, on one of his visits to the great metropolis, he +found Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and forbidden to sing +again for a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, he bethought him of +the little valley of rest in the far western Highlands. Straightway +he confided to Lady Ruthven his concern for his co-patriot and friend, +giving as much of her story as he thought it well that both Lady Ruthven +and her daughter should know. Hence, when they went north to their +Highland valley again, they carried with them Iola, to be rested and +nursed, and to be healed in heart, too, if that could be. For Lady +Ruthven, with her eyes made keen by grief and love, had not been long +in discovering that, with Iola, the deeper sickness was that which no +physician's medicine can reach. + +Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to +their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most tender +nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning. + +“She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this terrible +restlessness,” said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was visiting at the +Hall. + +“Partly,” replied Charrington gloomily, “but not altogether, I fear. +This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser out again. +But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly help. She wrote +yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, +has kept in touch with him.” + +“Charrington,” inquired Alan hesitatingly, “would you advise that he +should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being perfectly +disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know.” + +“Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but--” + +“You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a +girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of her, as from +what you have told me of him he must be.” + +“Unworthy!” cried Jack. “Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends upon +what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but he's a man +through and through, and he's clean and honourable.” + +“Ah,” said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, “then would to Heaven she +could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her bones.” + +“At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter.” + +And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in +providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girl. +Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her +talk with Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such +times followed by quick penitence. + +“Dear Lady Ruthven,” she said one day after one of her little outbreaks, +“I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so perfectly +self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. You must have +been born good and sweet.” + +For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back swiftly +to long gone years. “No, dear,” she said gently; “I have much to be +thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but He was +patient and bore long with me. And He is still bearing.” + +“Tell me how you learned,” asked Iola timidly, and then Lady Ruthven +told her life story, without tears, without repinings, while Iola +wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the influence of it never +departed from her. Never were the days quite so bad again, but every day +while she struggled to subdue her impatience even in thought, she kept +looking for word from across the sea with a longing so intense that all +in the house came to share it with her. + +“Oh! if we only knew where to get him!” groaned Jack Charrington to her +one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her happy past, she had +opened her heart. “Why does he keep away?” he added bitterly. + +“It is my fault, Jack,” she replied. “He is not to blame. No one is to +blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure he will come, I +only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if--” + +“Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are +getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly.” + +“Some days I am so well,” she replied, unwilling to grieve him. “I would +like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am sure to hear soon +now.” + +They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger +wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching. + +“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “there it is!” + +“Come, Iola,” said Jack, almost sternly, “come in and sit down.” So +saying, he brought her into the library and made her recline upon the +couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of her waking hours +were spent. + +It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the +library. “Shall I open it?” he asked, with an anxious look at Iola. + +“Yes,” she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart. + +Lady Ruthven came to her side. “Iola, darling,” she said, taking both +her hands in hers, “it is good to feel that God's arms are about us +always.” + +“Yes, dear Lady Ruthven,” replied the girl, regaining her composure; +“I'm learning. I'm not afraid.” + +Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read +the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back +upon her couch. “God is good,” she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over +her. “You were right. Teach me how to trust Him better.” + +“Are you all right, Iola?” said Jack, anxiously feeling her pulse. + +“Quite right, Jack, dear,” she said. + +“Then hooray!” cried Jack, starting up. “Let's see, 'Coming Silurian +seventh. Barney.'” he read aloud. “The seventh was yesterday. Six days. +She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be here by Monday at latest.” + +“Saturday, Jack,” said Iola, opening her eyes. + +“Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. +Meantime, you're not to fret.” And he frowned sternly down upon her. + +“Fret?” she cried, looking up brightly. “Never more, Jack. I shall never +fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for these five days, +every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well.” + +It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every hour, +every minute, she appeared to gain strength. She ate with relish and +slept like a child. The old feverish restlessness left her, and she laid +aside many of her invalid ways. + +“You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I suppose, Charrington?” said +Alan on Thursday, after the Silurian had been reported. + +“I've just been thinking,” replied Jack, with careful deliberation, +“that it would be almost better you should go, Ruthven. You see you're +the man of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger to tell +him.” + +“Come, Charrington,” replied his friend, “you don't often play the +coward. You've simply got to go. But why should you tell?” + +“Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce Fraser's he +would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly words yet, 'Quite hopeless. +Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I say, old man, I +suppose I ought to go, but you've got to come along and make talk. I'll +simply blubber right out when I see him. You know I'm awfully fond of +the old boy.” + +“I say, Charrington, I've got it! Take my aunt with you.” + +Jack gasped. “By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but she's the +saintly kind that delights to bear other people's burdens.” + +And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the boat +and bring Barney, with all speed, to Ruthven Hall. + + +At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with outstretched +hands, crying, “Barney, old boy, we're glad to see you! Here, let me +present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola is staying.” With +feverish haste he hurried Barney through the crowds, bustling hither +and thither about his luggage and giving himself not a moment for +conversation till they were seated in the first-class apartment carriage +that was to carry them to Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled +in their places when the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, +dropped to silence. + +“You have bad news for me,” said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven steadily +in the face. “Has anything happened?” + +“No, Dr. Boyle,” replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly than was +her wont, “but--” and here she paused, shrinking from delivering the +mortal stab, “but we are anxious about our dear Iola.” + +“Tell me the worst, Lady Ruthven,” said Barney. + +“That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and her +heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful. It is better she should +be kept so.” + +Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of their +deep sockets with the piteous, mute appeal of an animal stricken to +death. He moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, kept +his eyes fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking relief. Charrington +turned his head away. + +“We feel thankful for her great courage,” said Lady Ruthven, in her +sweet, calm voice, “and for her peace of mind.” + +At last Barney found his voice. “Does she suspect anything?” he asked +hoarsely. + +“I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager all +summer to get back to her home--to you--to those she loved. She will +rejoice to see you.” + +Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long moan. +Jack looked out upon the fleeting landscape dimmed by the tears he dared +not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop by drop, Barney drank +his cup to the bitter dregs. + +“We try to think of the bright side,” at length said Lady Ruthven +gently. + +Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at her in dumb misery. + +“There is the bright side,” she continued, “the side of the immortal +hope. We like to think of the better country. That is our real home. +There, only, are our treasures safe.” She was giving him time to get +hold of himself after the first deadly stab. But Barney made no reply +except to gravely bow. “It is, indeed, a better country,” she added +softly as if to herself, “the only place we immortals can call home.” + Then she rose. “Come, Jack,” she said, “I think Dr. Boyle would like to +be alone.” Before she turned away to another section of the carriage, +she offered him her hand with a grave, pitying smile. + +Barney bowed reverently over her hand. “I am grateful to you,” he said +brokenly, “believe me.” His face was contorted with the agony that +filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her speechless and in +silence they turned away from him, and for the long hour that followed +they left him with his grief. + +When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, carrying +the air of one who has fought his fight and has not been altogether +beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the great door of +Ruthven Hall. + +“Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room,” said Lady Ruthven; “I shall +see Iola and send for him.” But just then her daughter came down the +stairs. “Mamma,” she said in a low, quick tone, “she wants him at once.” + +“Yes, dear, I know,” replied her mother, “but it will be better that +I--” + +But there was a light cry, “Barney!” and, looking up, they all saw, +standing at the head of the great staircase, a figure slight and frail, +but radiant. It was Iola. + +“Pardon me, Lady Ruthven,” said Barney, and was off three steps at a +time. + +“Come, children.” Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the library +that opened off the hall, where they stood gazing at each other, awed +and silent. + +“Heaven help them!” at length gasped Jack. + +“Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington,” said Miss Ruthven. “You are hurting +me.” + +“Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than I can +well stand.” + +“It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington,” said Lady +Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that subdued all emotion and recalled them +to self-control. “You will see that Dr. Boyle gets to his room?” + +“I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later,” replied Jack. +“Yes, I confess,” he continued, answering Miss Ruthven's look, “I am +a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes things tremendously. He was +quite mad about her years ago, fiercely mad about her, and when the +break came it almost ruined him. How he will stand this, I don't know, +but I am afraid to see him.” + +“This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven,” said Alan. “It +should not be prolonged, do you think?” + +“It is well that they should be alone for a time,” she replied, her own +experience making her wise in the ways of the breaking heart. + +When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs Iola +moved toward him with arms upraised. “Barney! Barney! Have you come to +me at last?” she cried. + +A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. He +took her gently into his arms and, restraining his passionate longing +to crush her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, gazing +into her glowing, glorious eyes the while. “Where?” he murmured. + +“This door, Barney.” + +He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a couch +he found there. Then, without a word, he put his cheek close to hers +upon the pillow, murmuring over and over, “Iola--Iola--my love--my +love!” + +“Why, Barney,” she cried, with a little happy laugh, “don't tremble so. +Let me look at you. See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and calm. Look +at me, Barney,” she pleaded, “I am hungry to look at your face. I've +only seen it in my dreams for so long.” She raised herself on her arm +and lifted his face from the pillow. “Now let me sit up. I shall never +see enough of you. Never! Never! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was!” + +“It was I who was wicked,” said Barney bitterly, “wicked and selfish and +cruel to you and to others.” + +“Hush!” She laid her hand on his lips. “Sit here beside me. Now, Barney, +don't spoil this one hour. Not one word of the past. You were a little +hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew you were right. I +was wrong. But I thought there would be more in that other life. Even at +its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The great 'Lohengrin' night when +they brought me out so many times--” + +“I was there,” interrupted Barney, his voice still full of bitter pain. + +“I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It was +for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my body, went all into Ortrud that +night.” + +“It was a great, a truly great thing, Iola.” + +“Yes,” said Iola, with a proud little laugh, “I think the dear old +Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great performance, but I +waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I found +that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, how I wanted you, +Barney, then--and ever since!” + +“If I had only known!” groaned Barney. + +“Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out +of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself--now or +ever--promise me, promise me!” she cried, eagerly insistent. + +“But I do, Iola.” + +“Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will you, +Barney?” The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but the desire +to gratify her. + +“I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word.” + +“Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling.” She wreathed her arms +about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. “Oh!” she said with a +deep sigh, “I shall rest now--rest--rest. That's what I've been longing +for. I could not rest, Barney.” + +Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful +restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart filled with +a fierce refusal of his lot. + +“There is no one like you, Barney, after all,” she murmured, nestling +down with a delicious sigh of content. “You are so strong. You will make +me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than for months.” + +Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the +treacherous disease. + +“Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except just +'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? After your +long silence you might--” She raised her head and looked into his eyes +with her old saucy smile. + +“There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold you +like this? But you must not talk too much.” + +“Tell me something about yourself,” she cried. “What? Where? How? Why? +No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest.” + +“It is hardly worth while, Iola,” he replied, “and it would take a long +time.” + +“Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. All +the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven than this? +Tell me about Margaret and--yes--and Dick,” she shyly added. “Are they +well and happy?” + +“Now, darling,” said Barney, stroking her hair; “just rest there and +I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust yourself.” + +“Go on then, Barney,” she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss, +nestling down again. “Oh, lovely rest!” + +Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days +together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy +that had come to them all. “And it was your letter that did it all, +Iola,” he said. + +“No,” she replied gently, “it was our Father's goodness. I see things +so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is an angel from +Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!” + +“I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for.” + +A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady +Ruthven, with Jack in the background, appeared. + +“Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. Boyle +would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?” + +“No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night to +dinner.” + +“Is it wise, do you think?” said Lady Ruthven gravely. “You must save +your strength now, you know.” + +“Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night,” she pleaded. “I'm not going to +be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. I am going to +eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them I can go +down. Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you like. I am +going, Jack,” she continued with something of her old imperious air. + +Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers +upon her wrist. She was growing excited. “Well, I think she might go +down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best.” + +“If she is good she might,” said Jack doubtfully. “But she must promise +to be quiet.” + +“Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good--as good as I can.” + With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content themselves. + +At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her +wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked +himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been mistaken. +As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever +she was! How quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, +glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds +about her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with +imagination's divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of +a change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her +conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it +was not these that made the change. There was a new quality of soul in +her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite +aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth, +earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing about her. + +To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in +Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in a +new and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet +it filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing +its claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the +heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in +spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, +before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale +of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western +Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, +the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary +life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the +beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip +and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held +the gaze of the whole company. + +“Oh, what splendid work!” she cried. “How good to be a man! But it's +better,” she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy +laugh, “to be a woman.” + +It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's +attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close. + +“Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?” cried Iola, as her hostess made a move +to rise. “What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you are not going +to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you know, and I +believe I feel like singing to-night.” + +“My dear, my dear,” said Lady Ruthven, “do you think you should exert +yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does your doctor +say?” + +“Barney?” + +“Barney, indeed!” echoed Jack indignantly. “Oh, the ingratitude of the +female heart! Here for all these weeks I have--” + +“Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough to +banish me.” + +“An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an +atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting +conversation,” said Jack gravely. + +“And music, Doctor?” inquired Iola, with mock humility. + +“Well, I'll sing a little myself,” replied Jack. + +“Oh, my dear Iola,” cried Miss Ruthven, “hasten to bed, I beg of +you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear +Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the +Highlands last year,” she continued with mischievous gravity. + +“Ah,” said Jack, much flattered, “I don't quite--” + +“Oh, the horn, you know.” + +“Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing.” + +“Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the--ah--experience.” + +“How do you feel now, Iola?” said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon +her pulse. + +“Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen.” And she ran up her chromatics +in a voice rich and strong and clear. + +“Well, this is most wonderful!” exclaimed Jack. “Her pulse is strong, +even, steady. Her respiration is normal.” + +“I told you!” cried Iola triumphantly. “Now you will let me sing--not +a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie. +Barney's mother used to sing it.” + +“My dear Iola,” entreated Lady Ruthven, “do you think you should +venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?” + +“Don't ask me,” said Barney. “I should forbid it were it anyone else.” + +“But it isn't anyone else,” persisted Iola, “and my doctor says yes. +I'll only hum, Jack.” + +“Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and +such frills.” + +She took her guitar. “I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother,” she +said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect +reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang +the Highland lament, “O'er the Moor.” + + + “O'er the moor I wander lonely, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + Where are all the joys I cherished? + With my darling they have perished, + And they will return no more. + + “I loved thee first, I loved thee only, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + I loved thee from the day I met thee. + What care I though all forget thee? + I will love thee evermore.” + + +And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, “You +never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you.” And in a low, +soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little +song that described so fittingly her own experience, “My Heart's Rest.” + + + “I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, + And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, + When the Master came to close His fold + And saw that one had strayed. + + “Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, + And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till + The Master's voice searched vale and hill: + I heard and fled afraid. + + “Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. + And the stars went out, and the day was gone, + Then the Master found, laid me upon + His bosom, unafraid.” + + +A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out +of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette +and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it +passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate. + +“I feel as if I could sleep now,” said Iola. “Barney, carry me.” Like a +tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. “Good-night, dear +friends, all,” she said. “What a happy evening it has been.” Then, with +a little cry, “Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping,” she locked her arms +tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. “Goodnight, Barney, my +love, my own love,” she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. “How +good you are to me--how good to have you. Now kiss me--quick--don't +wait--again, dear--good-night.” Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her +head sank upon his breast. + +“Iola!” he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down +into her face. He carried her to the open window. “Oh, my God! My God! +She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!” + +But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, +and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal +ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested +upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart +was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay +as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes +full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned +and left him alone with his dead. + + +For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the +midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had +not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not +snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near. + +At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and +lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot +where her dead lay. + +“We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here,” she +said. “You know we love her dearly.” + +“It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven,” Barney replied, +his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. “She loved +this valley, and it was here she first found rest.” + +“Yes, she loves this valley,” replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept +Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. “And here she found peace +and perfect love again.” + +A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London +to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride +in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with +him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she +had made her London debut in “Lohengrin.” There in the sunny valley they +laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their +tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, +only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace. + + + + +XXIII + +THE LAST CALL + + +Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his +discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various +forms he felt that he stood almost alone. + +At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed +him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was +familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches +to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion +was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the +Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of +development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other +upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly +on that ground. + +“Well,” said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, “how did the +meeting go last night?” + +“I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all.” + +“Yes,” replied Daggett, “your men are all right in their opinions, but +they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have +told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't +stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with +sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your +nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes +to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put +together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. +Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their +husbands' business.” + +Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was +not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's +review of the situation. + +“There is something in what you say,” he conceded, “but--” + +“Oh, come now,” interrupted Daggett, “you know better than that. This +town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, +he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey +and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable +McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own +business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor +Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever +since. The safe thing is to do nothing.” + +“You seem to know all about it,” said Dick. “What's the good of your +paper? Why don't you get after these men?” + +“My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite +true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of +public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being +an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. +Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations +that determine newspaper policy.” + +Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. “It's true. It's terribly true,” + he said. “The people don't want anything better than they have. The +saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. +But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an +opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump +into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand +this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take +a hand.” + +Daggett smiled a superior smile. “Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The +Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with +a small g.” + +“I tell you, Daggett,” said Dick hotly, “The Pioneer's day is past. I +see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, +too, unless you change, out of existence.” + +“Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it +arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but +the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?” + +“I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick +and running this library and clubroom business.” + +“Yes,” replied Daggett thoughtfully, “I hear of him often. The railroad +men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this +constituency?” + +Dick laughed at him. “Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy +him. Oh, I know the game.” + +Daggett was silenced for some moments. + +“Hello!” said Daggett, looking out of the window, “here is our coming +Member.” He opened the door. “Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the +Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle--Mr. +Hull, the coming Member for this constituency.” + +“I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent,” + said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of +the political parties or their representatives. “I must get along. But, +Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell +business.” With this he closed the door. + +“Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon,” said Hull, “but a little unpractical, +eh?” + +“Yes,” agreed Daggett, “he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think +he is on the right track.” + +“How? What do you mean?” + +“I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this +country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks +that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can +keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over +night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see +them, too.” + +“Signs?” inquired Hull. + +“Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held +responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,' +too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's +brother is taking a hand, I believe.” + +“The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him.” + +“Do you know him?” + +“Not well.” + +“You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't +forget it.” + +Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable +wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for +the tenderfoot. + +“All right,” said Daggett, “you may sniff. I've watched him and I've +discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker +player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit +poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer.” + +“What's his game?” + +“Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here +at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. +Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen +to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing +clubrooms.” + +“By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' +think of it?” + +“Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's +a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. +He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'” + +“What about 'Mexico'?” + +“Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit, +divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting +queer.” + +Hull was at once on the alert. “That's interesting. You are sure of your +facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign +is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to +be considered.” + +But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political +machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the +saloon and “red light” influence to be easily emancipated. The business +interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent +upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had +the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for +reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the +railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic +lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the +saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, +unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to +cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. +Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an +endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective +were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an +unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of +the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was +too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man +“who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or +blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker.” + +“He stays while I stay,” was Fahey's last word in reply to an +influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine. + +Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. +“Mexico” and the organization of which he was the head were instructed +to “run him out.” Receiving his orders, “Mexico” called his agents +together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately +developed, one party led by “Peachy” being strongly in favour of +obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly +opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. “Mexico” sat silent, watchful, +impassive. At length, “Peachy,” in full swing of an impassioned and +sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was +called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief. + +“Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do +something.” + +A grim laugh at “Peachy's” expense went round the company. + +“Do somethin'?” snarled “Peachy,” stung to fury, “I'll do somethin' one +of these days. I've stood you all I want.” + +“Peachy's” oaths were crude in comparison with “Mexico's,” but his fury +lent them force. “Mexico” turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him. + +“Do something? Meaning?” + +“Never mind,” growled “Peachy.” + +“Git!” “Mexico” pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of +doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that +meeting, but banishment from the company of which “Mexico” was head, and +that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. “Peachy” + was startled. + +“You needn't be so blanked swift,” he growled apologetically. “I didn't +mean for to--” + +“You git!” repeated “Mexico,” turning the pointing finger from the door +to the face of the startled wretch. + +With a fierce oath “Peachy” reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. +“Mexico” moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except +that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat +over the piercing black eyes. + +“You dog!” he ground out through his clenched teeth, “you know you can't +bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me +up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!” + +The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while +“Mexico's” hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly “Peachy” rose +and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage +beast. At the door he paused. + +“'Mexico,'” he said, “is this the last between you and me?” + +“Mexico” kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man +backing out of the door. + +“Git out, you cur!” he said, with contemptuous deliberation. + +“Take that, then.” + +Like a flash, “Mexico” threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as +one. A slight smile curled “Mexico's” lip. + +“Got him that time, I reckon.” + +“Hurt, 'Mexico'?” anxiously inquired his friends. + +“Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight.” The bartender and some +others came running in with anxious faces. “Never mind, boys,” said +“Mexico.” “'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him +some.” + +“Say, there's blood here!” said the bartender. “He's been bleedin' bad.” + +“Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business.” + +The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired. + +“Now, boys, listen to me,” said “Mexico” impressively, leaning over the +table. “Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine, +and the man that touches him touches me.” There was an ominous silence. + +“Just as you say, 'Mexico,'” said one of the men, “but I see the finish +of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you +know he ain't the kind that quits.” + +“You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of +this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. +But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay.” + +As the meeting broke up, “Mexico's” friends warned him against “Peachy.” + +“Pshaw! 'Peachy'!” said “Mexico” contemptuously. “He couldn't hold his +gun steady at me.” + +“He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round.” + +But “Mexico” only spat out his contempt for anything that “Peachy” could +do, and went calmly on his way, “keeping the boys in line.” But he began +to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he +could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness +on the part of the boys to “line up” at the word, but there was no +corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the “same old +party.” There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part +of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been +several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm +for all “Mexico” represented. They “lined up” still, but beyond this +they did not go. + +The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the +attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the +polls. “It's that cursed doctor!” he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member +for the district. “He's been working a deep game. Of course, his +brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we +know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm +afraid of him.” + +“Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing,” said McKenty. + +“How?” + +“Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without +grease.” McKenty spoke out of considerable experience. + +“That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of +another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys +all round.” + +“I've heard about it,” said McKenty. “I guess the Government could take +a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too.” + +“That's all right,” replied the editor. “Might do some good. But you +can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs +altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one +doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. +He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can +get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says.” + +McKenty thought deeply for some moments. “Well,” he said, finally, +“something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage +to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?” + +“'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. “There's +the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be +strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be +after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The +best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, +sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.” + +“Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of +loosening up people.” + +“But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work +here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's +some religion in it.” + +McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke. + +“I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The doctor's got it +hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I +was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair +curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting +in question. + +“Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' +pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. +You've simply got to get after him.” + +This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, +looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he +perceived “Mexico” sauntering down the other side of the street. + +“There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! 'Mexico'!” he +called, and “Mexico” came slouching across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't +he?” said the editor. “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!” + +“Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the editor and then to +McKenty. + +“How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most ingratiating +manner. + +“How?” + +“How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know.” + +“Comin' on soon?” + +“Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be +ready, though.” + +“Can't be too soon,” said “Mexico.” + +“How is that?” + +“Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion,” with a glance at +the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. “People beginnin' to go +to meetin' in this country.” + +“I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, +facetiously. + +“Mexico” turned his eyes slowly upon the Member. + +“Anything to say agin it?” + +“Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's +got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip.” + +“Who says?” + +“Oh, I hear it everywhere.” + +“Guess it must be right, then,” replied “Mexico,” grimly. + +“And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to +the mourners' bench.” + +“Do, eh?” + +“Look here, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, +“you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you, +are you?” + +“Don't know about that.” + +“You don't?” + +“No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm +working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my +way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. +Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon.” + +“Well, do you imagine the doctor has?” + +“Mexico” paused, then said thoughtfully, “Blanked if I can git on to his +game!” + +“Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You +don't really think he has your interest at heart?” + +“Can't quite tell.” “Mexico” wore a vexed and thoughtful air. “Wish I +could. If I thought so I'd--” + +“What?” + +“Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!” There was a sudden +gleam from under “Mexico's” heavy brows and a ring in his usually +drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. “There ain't +too many of that kind raound.” + +“What do you think of that?” inquired the editor, as “Mexico” sauntered +out of the door. + +“Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it +ought to be enforced.” + +“That means war,” said the editor. + +“Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd +give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country.” + +But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the +country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should +so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his +work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to +the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of +the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines +opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both +labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive +ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of +miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long +campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors +were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so +urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were +concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The +miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched +conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous +objection. + +How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, +a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on +the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where +it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his +return from Scotland. + +“We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before,” + grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret. + +“It's the universal law,” replied Dick. “Some men must die for their +nation. It's been the way from the first.” + +“But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work +yourself to death as you are doing?” said Margaret, anxiously. “You know +you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came +back.” + +Barney only smiled. “That would be no great matter,” he said, lightly. +“But there is no fear of me,” he added. “I don't pine for an early +death, you know. I've got a lot to live for.” + +There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave +in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return, +and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and +speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light +and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and +Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's +mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. +Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and +tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had +gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend. + +“It would be easier for me not to speak of her,” he had said on his +return, “but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to +talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy.” + +And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till +at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only +deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory +of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of +each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney. +It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of +his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's +story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months, +combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even +in the most radiant moments of her life. + +“There is only place for gratitude,” he said, one evening, to them. “Why +should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or +to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from +pain, and her last evening so full of joy?” + +It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps +to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he +went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in +him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, +but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the +words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. +The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm +possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to +give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical +well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and +spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had +initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not +to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element +and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the +success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as +ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, +they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As +“Mexico” said, they “couldn't get onto his game.” And none of them was +more completely puzzled than was “Mexico” himself, but none more fully +acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new +spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same +time, however, “Mexico” could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and +then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when +“Mexico” would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself +up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who +lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and “Mexico” was +kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious +to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil +and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it +difficult for “Mexico” to accept it as being sincere. + +“What's his game?” he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery +deepened. “What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?” + +One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve +miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had +been falling heavily all day. “Mexico” received him with a wrathful +affection. + +“What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?” “Mexico” asked +him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had +come to notice the doctor disliked. “I can't get onto you. It's all just +d--, that is, cursed foolishness!” + +“Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll +tell you. Now listen,” said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before +“Mexico's” fire. “I've been wanting to tell you this for some time.” + He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always +formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story +of the two debtors. “Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last +spring?” “Mexico” nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. “I had a +big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, +and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long +enough to pay back what I owe.” Then he told “Mexico” in a low, reverent +tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. +“That's why,” he said, when he concluded his tale. “That was a great +thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! +they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night +like this. And don't you think that's good enough?” + +Then “Mexico” turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the +sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale. +After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis: + +“You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want.” + +“'Mexico,'” replied the doctor, “you know I don't preach at you. I +haven't, have I?” + +“Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't.” + +“Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my +friend.” He put out his hand, which “Mexico” gripped and held fast. +“But,” continued the doctor, “I want to say that He wants you more than +I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend.” + +“Say, Doc,” said “Mexico,” drawing back a little from him, “I guess not. +That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. +It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It +would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. +But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that +mountain there.” + +“The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'” said the doctor, +quietly. “He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' +it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!” + +“You're right there,” said “Mexico,” emphatically. Then, as if a sudden +suspicion flashed in upon him, “Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, +are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet.” + +“Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a +good thing and I want my friend to have it.” + +When the doctor was departing next morning “Mexico” stopped him at the +door. “I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of +yours for a spell?” + +The doctor took it out of his bag. “It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can +bank on it.” + +The book proved of absorbing interest to “Mexico.” He read it openly in +the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book +and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable +comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read +became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor. +The book did its work with “Mexico,” as it does with all who give it +place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling +in “Mexico's” mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His +discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of +poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. +For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction. +The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued +that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss +without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined +that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his +friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that +week the doctor failed to appear, and “Mexico” grew increasingly +uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness +not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined +to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged +“Mexico” into deepest gloom. + +“If he's took to bed,” he said, “there ain't much hope, I guess, for +they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off.” + +But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the +doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He +had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and +that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he +would be on his feet again. + +“If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month,” groaned +Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed. + +“There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him,” replied Margaret, +“but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton,” and here she +smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, “you will help, I +am sure.” + +“Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him +there.” + +“Yes, a month at the very least,” cried Dick. + +But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he +would be fit again. + +“It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical +Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway,” said Dr. Cotton, “and I +think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen.” + +“Ah,” replied Margaret, “that is because you haven't known your patient +long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey.” + +And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, +when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had +apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the +flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in +his hand. + +“It's fer the doctor,” said Ben, “an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' +had got shot and--” + +Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's +voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two +words had caught Barney's ear, “Mexico” and “shot.” + +“Let me have the wire,” he said quietly, when Margaret came in. + +“I intended to give it to you, Barney,” she replied as quietly. “You +will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best.” + +Barney opened the telegram and read, “'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. +Wants doctor to come if possible.” + +“Dr. Cotton is not in?” inquired Barney. + +“He is gone up the Big Horn.” + +“We can't possibly get him to-night,” replied Barney. + +Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew +that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost. + +“Take my temperature, Margaret.” It was nine-nine and one-fifth. “That's +not bad,” said Barney. “Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. +Yes, and more.” + +Margaret turned slightly pale. “You know best, Barney,” she said, “but +it may be your life, you know.” + +“Yes,” he replied gravely. “I take that chance. But I think I ought to +take it, don't you?” But Margaret refused to speak. “What do you think, +Margaret?” he asked. + +“Oh, Barney!” she cried, with passionate protest, “why should you give +your life for him?” + +“Why?” he repeated slowly. “There was One who gave His life for me. +Besides,” he added, after a pause, “there's a fair chance that I can get +through.” + +She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. “No, Barney, there's +almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!” + The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, +earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the +crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She +buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, +stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. +Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he +said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, “You expect me to do right, +Margaret.” + +A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of +renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained +it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes +looked into his bravely while she answered simply, “You will do what is +right, Barney.” + +Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. +“Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'” + A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently +reached “Mexico,” and he would not have his friend risk his life for +him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a +light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down. + +When he entered the sick man's room “Mexico” glanced into his face. +“Good Lord, Doctor!” he cried, “you shouldn't have come! You're worse +than me!” + +“All right, 'Mexico,'” replied the doctor cheerfully. “I had to come, +you know. We can't go back on our friends.” + +“Mexico” kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began +to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. “I know +now,” he said hoarsely, “why He let 'em kill Him.” + +“Why?” + +“Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?” + +“You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?” + +“You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed.” + +The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty +wound and dangerous, but in half an hour “Mexico” was resting quietly. +Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning, +conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well +knew indicated a very serious condition. When “Mexico” woke the doctor +examined him carefully. + +“You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet +and obey orders.” + +“Mexico's” hand grasped him. “Doc,” he said anxiously, “you look awful +bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be terrible sick.” + +“I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I +couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm glad I +came.” + +“Mexico's” fierce black eyes softened. “Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I +had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know now. And I want +to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out.” He waved +his hand toward the bar. + +“'Mexico,'” said Barney earnestly, “that's great! That's the best news +I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick.” He took the gambler's +hand in his. “Good-bye, 'Mexico.'” His voice was earnest, almost solemn. +“You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll +never go back on a friend.” + +“Mexico” reached out and held him with both hands. “Git out,” he said to +the attendant. “Doc,” his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew +the doctor down to him, “there ain't nobody here, is there?” he asked, +with a glance round the room. + +“No, 'Mexico,' no one.” + +“Doc,” he began again, his strong frame shaking, “I can't say it. It's +all in here till it hurts. You're--you're like Him, I think. You make me +think o' Him.” + +Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about +his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. “God +bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word,” he said. “Goodbye, my friend.” + +They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's +eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through +the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every +moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave +welcoming smile. + +“Dr. Cotton has returned,” she announced. “And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is +here, Barney.” + +He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. “That +was right, Margaret. And Dick?” + +“Dick will be here this afternoon.” + +“You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself,” + said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs. + +“Let me help you, Barney,” she said, putting her arms about him. “You're +the one who will not think of yourself.” + +“We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson, +after all.” + +The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble +and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded +immediate operation. + +“We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?” Barney asked, a +little anxiously. “An hour can't make much difference now, you know.” + +“Why, certainly we shall wait,” cried the doctor. + +Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent +message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious +operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of +emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. +The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of +strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his +brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal +effects. + +“Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right,” he said, with +cheerful courage. + +“Of course,” answered Dick, quickly. + +“But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly.” + +“Quite right, Barney,” said Dick again, his voice steady and even. + +The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for +a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then +the doctor came to the door. + +“Are you ready, Doctor?” said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful voice. + +“Yes, we're all ready.” + +“A minute, Doctor, please,” said Barney. + +The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone. + +“Just a little, word, Dick.” + +“Oh, Barney,” cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, “I +don't think I can.” + +“Never mind then, old chap,” replied Barney, putting out his hand to +him. + +“Wait a minute, Barney. I will,” said Dick, instantly regaining hold +of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in +both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his +prayer, closing with the words, “And O, my Father, keep my brother +safe.” “And mine,” added Barney. “Amen.” + +“Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready.” And with a smile he met the +doctor at the door. + +In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse +told Dick all he dared not ask. + +“How long before he will be quite conscious again?” he inquired. + +“It will be an hour at least,” replied the surgeon, kindly, “before he +can talk much.” + +Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door +upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready +to help his brother if he should chance to need help for “the last +weariness, the final strife.” + +“We must help him,” he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting +till he should waken. “We must forget our side just now.” + +But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night +they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as +it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with +strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, +but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by +Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed. + +“This is not too bad, Dick,” he said. “How much worse it might have +been. He brought us two together again--us three,” he corrected, +glancing at Margaret. + +“Yes, Barney,” replied Dick, “nothing matters much beside that.” + +“And then,” continued his brother, “He let me do a little work for the +boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, +Dick. He is my friend.” + +“Mine, too, Barney,” said Dick; “mine forever.” + +“Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a doctor, I +mean!” + +“We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear.” + +“What a chance!” he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep. + +Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was +at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their +unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a +rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, +letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned +his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper. + +Bending over him his brother caught the words, “Night no more.” The +great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the +mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest +upon his brother's face. “It is near now, Dick--I think--and it's not +hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think +mother--would like--to have me near.” + +“Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother.” Dick's voice was +steady and clear. + +“Margaret,” said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An +odd little smile played over his face. “I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but +I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me.” + She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb +courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, “Barney, my love! my +love!” + +Again he smiled up at her. “Margaret,” he said, “take care--of Dick--for +me.” + +“Yes, Barney, I will.” The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice +carried full conviction to his mind. + +“I know you will,” he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he +lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly +he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. “Dick, my boy,” + he cried, in a clear, strong voice, “my brother--my brother.” He lifted +up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, +then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, +tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen. + +“He's gone, Margaret!” cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, +lifting up a white appealing face to her. “He's gone! Oh! he has left +us!” + +She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. “We have only each +other now, Dick,” she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the +strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found +courage to turn again and live. + +Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through +the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. +It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a +king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. +It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a +longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street +behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps +and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large +wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid +it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, +hesitatingly, “The men would like to see him again, if you think best.” + +“Tell them to come,” replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the +face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most +part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked +upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph +subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat comforted. +The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss +of their friend, but to him the best had come. + +By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. “Ochone!” he sobbed, +“when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at +him I feel no pain at all.” It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For +themselves they must weep, but not for him. + +At length, all had gone. “Could you say a word to them, Dick?” said +Margaret. “I think he would like it.” And Dick, drawing a deep breath, +went forth to them. His words were few and simple. “We must not speak +words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you +as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know you will not +forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me +to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved +and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he +gave himself to you.” + +As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh +dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd +quickly made way. It was “Mexico,” pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon +his friends. He came up to Dick. “May I see him?” he asked humbly. + +“Come in,” said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to +the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by +this time that it was to save “Mexico” the doctor had given his life. +With heads bared they waited till “Mexico” came out again. As he +appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm supporting him, the +men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce, +gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a moment “Mexico” stood +leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew himself erect. + +“Boys,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly audible +over the crowd, “he died because he wouldn't go back on his friend. He +gave me this.” He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and +carried it reverently to his lips. “I'm a-goin' to follow that trail.” + +Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and +then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, +even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but +remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of +that strong love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for +His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend. + + + + +XXIV + +FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + +Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had +been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full pride of +their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of +old, the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake +fences, sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the rails peeped the +clover, red and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the +dogwood, while the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green +clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The singing voices of summer +were all a-throb, filling the air with great antiphonies of praise, till +this good June day was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life. + +At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. “I'll +wait here,” she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up the chaste +beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his fierce +rays. “I must get into the shade,” she said, climbed the fence, and, on +the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself down in the shade of +the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to her. How well +she remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would +never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that only love +knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem. + +A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, +remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help +and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, “Take +care of Dick for me,” had moved her to offer with shy courage to go back +with him. But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of any such +persuasion. + +“You must not come to me for pity,” he said, bidding her good-bye. + +But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and +wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's heroic +service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had +returned. To-day he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah, +there he was now. On the crest of the hill he would turn and look toward +her. There, he had turned. + +As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, “Margaret!” + and came running toward her. + +She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the +throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him. + +Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there +waiting. “Margaret!” he cried again, with a note of anxiety in his voice +that trembled under the intensity of his feeling. + +But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her. +“Oh, I am so glad,” she whispered to herself. Dick came toward her +slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from +her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the +blue eyes lifted so bravely to his. + +“For pity's sake, Margaret?” he asked, the note of anxiety deepening in +his voice. + +For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. “Yes,” + she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, “and for +love's sake, too.” + +And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full +from earth to heaven above. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + +***** This file should be named 3242-0.txt or 3242-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3242/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/3242-0.zip b/3242-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..74f2f5f --- /dev/null +++ b/3242-0.zip diff --git a/3242-h.zip b/3242-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f91de9 --- /dev/null +++ b/3242-h.zip diff --git a/3242-h/3242-h.htm b/3242-h/3242-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e02d8c --- /dev/null +++ b/3242-h/3242-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14125 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Doctor + A Tale Of The Rockies + +Author: Ralph Connor + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3242] +Last Updated: March 5, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE DOCTOR + </h1> + <h2> + A TALE OF THE ROCKIES <br /> <br /> By Ralph Connor + </h2> + <hr /> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </td> + <td> + THE OLD STONE MILL + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </td> + <td> + THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </td> + <td> + THE RAISING + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE DANCE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V </a> + </td> + <td> + THE NEW TEACHER + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI </a> + </td> + <td> + THE YOUNG DOCTOR + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII </a> + </td> + <td> + BEN'S GANG + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX </a> + </td> + <td> + LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X </a> + </td> + <td> + FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XI </a> + </td> + <td> + IOLA'S CHOICE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XII </a> + </td> + <td> + HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIII </a> + </td> + <td> + A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIV </a> + </td> + <td> + WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XV </a> + </td> + <td> + THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVI </a> + </td> + <td> + THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVIII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XIX </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XX </a> + </td> + <td> + UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXI </a> + </td> + <td> + TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE HEART'S REST + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIII </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LAST CALL + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIV </a> + </td> + <td> + FOR LOVE'S SAKE + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + <br /> <br /> + </h2> + <h1> + THE DOCTOR + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <h3> + THE OLD STONE MILL + </h3> + <p> + There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. One, + from the sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, flower-decked banks, + wound between snake fences, along which straggled irregular clumps of + hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond which stretched + on one side fields of grain just heading out this bright June morning, and + on the other side a long strip of hay fields of mixed timothy and red + clover, generous of colour and perfume, which ran along the snake fence + till it came to a potato patch which, in turn, led to an orchard where the + lane began to drop down to the Mill valley. + </p> + <p> + At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic + aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For there the valley with its sweet + loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the right, out of an + angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the pond which brimmed + gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond the pond a sloping grassy + sward showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the hither side + of the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge, and at the + nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows, stood the Old + Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard the shed and + barn, all neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left of the mill, + with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond, wandered off green + fields of many shading colours, through which ran the Mill Creek, foaming + as if enraged that it should have been even for a brief space paused in + its flow to serve another's will. Then, beyond the many-shaded fields, + woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream entered, and maple and + beech on the higher levels. That was one way to the mill, the way the + farmers took with their grist or their oats for old Charley Boyle to + grind. + </p> + <p> + The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line, + which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path, + sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the + barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech and + maple woods to the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the right + if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one wished to + reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill, with its dam + and pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard, made a picture of + rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of peace. At least, the + woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the willows fell, found it + so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested her; the full sweet harmony + of those many voices in which Nature pours forth herself on a summer day, + stole in upon her heart and comforted her. She was a woman of striking + appearance. Tall and straight she stood, a figure full of strength; her + dark face stamped with features that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her + black hair shot with silver threads, parting in waves over her forehead; + her eyes deep set, black and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that + shines only in eyes that have for generations peered into the gloom of + Highland glens. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, it's a bonny spot,” she sighed, her rugged face softening + as she gazed. “It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to + part it.” + </p> + <p> + As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of + the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that weary fiddle!” she said with an impatient shake of + her head. But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into + tender pity. “Ah, well, well,” she sighed, “poor man, it + is the kind heart he has, whateffer.” + </p> + <p> + She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large + living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that + joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside the + door. “Mercy me!” she cried, “it's time my own work was + done. But I'll just step in and see—” She opened the door + leading to the mill and stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy + face, clean-shaven, and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging + about his forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, + playing a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight. + </p> + <p> + “The mill's a-workin', mother,” he cried without stopping his + flying fingers, “and I'm keepin' my eye upon her.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. “Ay, the mill is + workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Of what then?” he cried cheerily, still playing. + </p> + <p> + “It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you.” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong, mother,” replied the little man exultant. “Sure + you're wrong. Listen to this. What is it now?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” cried the woman, “how do I know?” + </p> + <p> + “But listen, Elsie, darlin',” he cried, dropping into his + Irish brogue. “Don't you mind—” and on he played for a + few minutes. “Now you mind, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?” she + cried, heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance. + </p> + <p> + But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly + changing expression, took on a softer look. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there you are,” cried the little man in triumph, “now + I know you remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', + since—” He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at + his side and sprang toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Go away with you.” She closed the door quickly behind her. + “Whisht now! Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as + ever you were.” + </p> + <p> + “Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's + foolish enough I've been often since. And,” he added with a sigh, + “it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll + do, perhaps, what I've not done.” + </p> + <p> + “Whisht now, lad,” said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, + for a great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. “What has come + to you to-day? Go away now to your work,” she added in her former + tone, “there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch + the grist.” + </p> + <p> + “And why would you watch the grist, mother?” said a voice from + the mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his + mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set, sombre + eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of power + in every move he made and of passion in every glance. “Indeed, you + will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the hay + in no time. And do you know, mother,” he continued in a tone of + suppressed excitement, “have you heard the big news?” His + mother waited. “He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the + Murrays, and Alec will bring him to the raising.” + </p> + <p> + A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a + voice calm and steady, “Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll + be late enough before it is in.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to her, Barney,” cried her husband scornfully. “And + she'll not be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by + one in the morning, and sure that's time enough.” + </p> + <p> + Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. “We + will have dinner early,” he said, “and I'll just take a turn + at the hay.” + </p> + <p> + She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the + scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it to his + father. + </p> + <p> + “Give it a turn or two,” he said; “you're better than me + at this.” + </p> + <p> + “Here then,” replied his father, handing him the violin, + “and you're better at this.” + </p> + <p> + “They would not say so to-night, Dad,” replied the lad as he + took the violin from his father's hands, looking it over reverently. In a + very few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for work; and + Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off up the lane. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <h3> + THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + </h3> + <p> + Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a milk pail + in her hand turned into the mill lane. As she stepped from the glare and + dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as if Nature had been + waiting to find in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in all her + fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of that green shady lane with its + sweet fragrance and its fresh beauty. + </p> + <p> + It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that supple + form into its firm lines of grace, and to tint those moulded cheeks with + the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle heads that + nodded at her through the snake fence. It had taken sixteen years of + pure-hearted, joyous living to lend those eyes, azure as the sky above, + their brave, clear glance; sixteen years of unsullied maidenhood to endow + her with that divine something of mystery which, with its shy reserve and + fearless trust, awakens reverence and rebukes impurity as with the vision + of God. + </p> + <p> + Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in the + sun, revealed a face strong, brave and kind, with just a touch of pride. + The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head and the carriage + of her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted in a smile over the + straight rows of white teeth one forgot the pride and thought only of the + soft persuasive lips. + </p> + <p> + As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of + clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, “Oh, this is good!” + She peeped through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red + clover. “What a bed!” she cried; “I believe I'll try it.” + Over the fence she sprang, and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the + fragrant blossoms, she stretched herself at full length upon her back. For + some minutes she lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed looking up through + the spreading thorn tree branches to the blue sky with its floating, + fleecy clouds far overhead. The lazy drone of the bees in the clover + beside her, the languorous summer airs swaying into gentle nodding the + timothy stalks just above her head, and all the soothing sounds of a + summer morning, that many-voiced choir that sings to the great God + Nature's glad content that all is so very good, rested and comforted the + girl's heart and body, making her know as she had not known before how + very weary she had been and how deep an ache her heart had held. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's good!” she cried again, stretching her hands at full + length above her head. “I wish I could stay for one whole day, just + here in the clover with the bees and the birds and the trees and the + clouds and the blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidying up.” + </p> + <p> + As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the moment + the load she had been carrying for many months. For a year she had tried + to fill in the minister's household her mother's place. Without a day's + warning the burden had been laid upon her shoulders, but with the fine + courage that youth and love combine to give, denying herself even the poor + luxury of indulgence of the grief that had fallen upon her young heart, + she had given herself, without thought of anything heroic in her giving, + to the caring for the house and the household, and the comforting as best + she could of her father, suddenly bereft of her who had been to him not + wife alone, but comrade and counsellor as well. Without a thought, she had + at once surrendered all the bright plans that she, with her mother, had + cherished for the cultivation of her varied talents, and had turned to the + dull, monotonous routine of household duties with never a thought but that + she must do it. There was no one else. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I am tired,” she said again aloud; then letting her + heart follow her eyes into and beyond the blue above her, she cried + softly, “O mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and how + much you did for me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear little + mother. Oh, if I had only known! Oh, we were all so thoughtless!” + She stretched up her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. + “For your sake, mother dear,” she whispered. Not often had any + seen those brave eyes dim with tears. Not often since that day when they + had carried her mother out from the Manse and left her behind with the + weeping, clinging children, and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, + chiding herself the while. “I never saw HER cry,” she said to + herself, “not once, except for some of us. And I will try. I MUST + try. It is hard to give up,” and again the tears welled up in the + brave blue eyes. “Nonsense,” she cried impatiently, sitting up + straight, “don't be a big, selfish baby. They're just the dearest + little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for them.” + </p> + <p> + Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation. She + locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. “It is a + beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over the + fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!” Once + more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay + again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents. + </p> + <p> + “Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink—” + </p> + <p> + She sprang up alert and listening. “That is old Charley, I suppose, + or Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe.” She climbed up the + conveniently jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field. + </p> + <p> + “It's Barney,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand; + “I wonder he does not cut his fingers.” She sat herself down + upon the top rail and leaned against the stake. + </p> + <p> + “My! what a sweep,” she said in admiring tones as the young + man swayed to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, + swinging easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a + cutting sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the + clattering machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the mower's + art with all its rhythmic grace. + </p> + <p> + Those were days when men were famous according as they could “cut + off the heels of a rival mower.” There are that grieve that, one by + one, from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily + toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand and + eye, their invincible endurance. But there still offer in life's stern + daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less picturesque + perhaps, but no less truly testing. + </p> + <p> + Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry of + motion. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't he do it well!” said the girl, following with + admiring eyes every movement of his well-poised frame. “How big he + is! Why—” and her blue eyes widened with startled surprise, + “he's almost a man!” The tint of the thistle bloom deepened in + her cheek. She glanced down and made as if to spring to the ground; then + settling herself resolutely back against her fence stake, she exclaimed, + “Pshaw! I don't care. He is just a boy. Anyway, I'm not going to + mind Barney Boyle.” + </p> + <p> + On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to the + end. + </p> + <p> + “Well done!” cried the girl. “You'll be cutting off Long + John's heels in a year or so.” + </p> + <p> + “A year or so! If I can't do it to-day I never can. But I don't want + to blow.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and + pitching and cradling, and what not.” + </p> + <p> + “They are, are they? Who is good enough to waste breath on me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just telling me the other + day.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw! I ran away from their crowd, but that's nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go + swinging along?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I? That's the only time then.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you + learn the scythe?” + </p> + <p> + “Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's + coming home to-day.” He glanced at her face quickly as he said this, + but her face showed only a frank pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “To-day? Good. Won't your mother be glad?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And some other people, too,” said Barney. + </p> + <p> + “And who, particularly?” + </p> + <p> + A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering himself, + “Well, I guess I will, myself, a little. This is the first time he + has ever been away. We never slept a night apart from each other as long + as I can mind till he went to college last year. He used to put his arm + just round me here,” touching his breast. “I'll tell you the + first nights after he went I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick + to find the place empty.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the girl doubtfully, “I hope he won't be + different. College does make a difference, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out of + him. But he won't be different. Not to us, nor,” he added shyly, + “to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, to me?” She laughed lightly. “He had better not try + any airs with me.” + </p> + <p> + “What would you do?” inquired Barney. “You couldn't take + it out of his hide.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down,” she replied with a + knowing shake of her head. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time,” replied Barney. “But + nothing can change Dick. And I am awful glad he's coming to-day, in time + for the raising, too.” + </p> + <p> + “The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And,” + regretfully, “a big supper and a big spree afterwards in the new + barn.” + </p> + <p> + “Are not you going?” inquired Barney. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll + go. I don't think father would like me to go, and,”—a pause—“anyway, + I don't think I can get away.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children for + once. You would like the raising. It's great fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get so + wild and yell so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, if + you don't. And Dick is coming that way, too. Alec Murray is to bring him + on his way home from town.” Again Barney glanced keenly at her face, + but he saw only puzzled uncertainty there. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I must go now.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” cried Barney, “I'll go with you. We're having + dinner early to-day.” He hung up the scythe in the thorn tree and + threw the stone at the foot. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would promise to come,” he said earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you, really?” The blue eyes turned full upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there.” + The frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to disappoint the blue eyes. + Together in silence they set off down the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, resuming their conversation, “I don't + think I can go, but I'll see. You'll be playing for the dancing, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I + may spell him a little perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great at that, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You ought + to see him! I'll make him do the Highland Fling.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick, Dick!” she cried impatiently, “everything is + Dick with you.” + </p> + <p> + Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, “Yes. I + guess you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next to my + mother, Dick is the finest in all the world.” + </p> + <p> + At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene spread + out before them. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Barney, “if I live to be a hundred years, + I can't forget that,” and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he + continued, “I tell you what, with the moon just over the pond there + making a track of light across the pond—” She glanced shyly at + him. The sombre eyes were looking far away. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” she said softly; “it must be lovely.” + </p> + <p> + Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical cadence + a call long and clear, “Who-o-o-hoo.” + </p> + <p> + “That's mother,” said Barney, answering the call with a quick + shout. “You'll be in time for dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Dinner!” she cried with a gasp. “I'll have to get my + buttermilk and other things and hurry home.” And she ran at full + speed down the hill and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting + that it was too hot to run. + </p> + <p> + “How are you, Mrs. Boyle?” she panted. “I'm in an awful + hurry. I'm after father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting + you run.” + </p> + <p> + “Letting me!” she laughed defiantly. “Indeed, he had all + he could do to keep up.” + </p> + <p> + “And that I had,” said Barney, “and, mother, tell her + she must come to the raising.” + </p> + <p> + “And are you not going?” said the older woman. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so. You know father—well, he wouldn't care for + me to be at the dance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I know,” quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, “but you + might just come with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will + be doing you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this + afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house.” + </p> + <p> + Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log + milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool over the + gravelly floor. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely place,” said Margaret, stepping along the foot + stones. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, it's clean and sweet,” said Mrs. Boyle. “And that + is what you most need with the milk and butter.” + </p> + <p> + She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's + pail with buttermilk. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones.” + </p> + <p> + “Och, yes!” said Mrs. Boyle. “There's no recipe at all. + It is just this way—” And she elucidated the mysteries of + sconemaking. + </p> + <p> + “But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure,” cried + Margaret, in despair. + </p> + <p> + “Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner + past, and we will call for you on our way.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, lassie,” she cried, “your father will like this. + It is only churned th' day.” She rolled a pat of butter in a clean + linen cloth, laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small + basket. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. + “You're far too kind to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good + girl you are, and a brave one.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very brave, I fear,” replied the girl, as she quickly + turned away and ran up the hill and out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “Poor motherless lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her + with loving eyes; “it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor + man, he can't see it. Well, well, she has the promise.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <h3> + THE RAISING + </h3> + <p> + The building of a bank-barn was a watershed in farm chronology. Toward + that event or from it the years took their flight. For many summers the + big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in a long heap at the + bottom of the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, the + foundation of the bank-barn. During the winter, previous the “timber + was got out.” From the forest trees, maple, beech or elm—for + the pine was long since gone—the main sills, the plates, the posts + and cross-beams were squared and hauled to the site of the new barn. + Hither also the sand from the pit at the big hill, and the stone from the + heap at the bottom of the lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite + gone the lighter lumber—flooring, scantling, sheeting and shingles—were + marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons and + framers appeared and began their work of organising from this mass of + material the structure that was to be at once the pride of the farm and + the symbol of its prosperity. + </p> + <p> + From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the acknowledged, + but none the less critical, observation of the immediate neighbourhood. + For instance, it had been a matter of free discussion whether “them + timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't too blamed heavy,” and it was + Jack McKenzie's openly expressed opinion that “one of them 'purline + plates' was so all-fired crooked that it would do for both sides at onct.” + But the confidence of the community in Jack Murray, framer, was + sufficiently strong to allay serious forebodings. And by the time the + masons had set firm and solid the many-coloured boulders in the + foundation, the community at large had begun to take interest in the + undertaking. + </p> + <p> + The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. It had + the distinction of being, in the words of Jack Murray, framer, “the + biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts.” Indeed, so + magnificent were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who stood just five feet + in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a man of considerable + importance in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an air of + finality, “What! two twenty-foot floors and two thirty-foot mows! It + cawn't be did.” Such was, therefore, the magnitude of the + undertaking, and such the far-famed hospitality of the McLeods, that no + man within the range of the family acquaintance who was not sick, or away + from home, or prevented by some special act of Providence, failed to + appear at the raising that day. + </p> + <p> + It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were already + there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. The varied + shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle,” said Mr. McLeod, who + stood at the gate receiving his guests. + </p> + <p> + “Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy,” shouted Tom + Magee, a big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue + twenty years of life in Canada had failed to impoverish. + </p> + <p> + “We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day,” replied the + miller, as with tender care he handed the green bag containing his + precious violin to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed, Mr. Boyle,” replied Mr. McLeod. “The girls + yonder would hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the + fore. You'll find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. + Boyle. The wife will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in + order yonder, eh, Margaret, lassie?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be + kept in order,” replied Mrs. Boyle. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle,” replied Mr. + McLeod. “A girl with an eye and a chin like that may break through + any time, and then woe betide you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me,” said Margaret, + springing lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward + the house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether + bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls overflowing + with life can produce. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Charley,” roared Magee. “We're waitin' to + make ye the boss.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Tom,” replied the little man, with a quiet + chuckle. “If you make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get + yourself and take hold of the gang. What do you say, men?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, that's it.” “Tom it is.” “Jump in, Tom,” + were the answering shouts. + </p> + <p> + “Aw now,” said Tom, “there's better than me here. Take + Big Angus there. He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, + Rory Ross? It's the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire + intil ye!” + </p> + <p> + There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of + Rory's hair and face. + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee,” said the fiery-headed, + fiery-hearted little Highlander. “When he's wanted, ye'll not find + him far away, I'se warrant ye.” + </p> + <p> + There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both famous + captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at raisings. + The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved by Charley + Boyle's ready wit. + </p> + <p> + “We'll divide the work, boys,” he said. “Some men do the + liftin' and others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'.” + </p> + <p> + A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker was + none too brilliant. + </p> + <p> + “All right then, boys,” roared Tom. “Ye'll have to take + it. Git togither an' quit yer blowin'.” He cast an experienced eye + over the ground where the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the + uninitiated would seem wild confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Them's the sills,” he cried. “Where's the skids?” + </p> + <p> + “Right under yer nose, Tom,” said the framer quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. + Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r—heave! + Togither-r-r—heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her + up! Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye! + Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!” Angus was just six + feet four. “Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady! + Cant her over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up on + her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her! Togither-r-r—heave! + Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too rambunctious! Ye'll be afther + knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back a little now! Whoa! How's that, + framer? Will that suit yer riverence? All right. Now thin, the nixt! Look + lively there! The gurls are comin' down to pick the winners, an a small + chance there'll be fer some of yez.” + </p> + <p> + And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the + sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced. + </p> + <p> + “Now thin, min fer the bints!” + </p> + <p> + The “bents” were the cross sections of heavy square timbers + which, fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the + barn. Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the + barn floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being + firmly joined to the one previously erected. + </p> + <p> + “Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!” admonished Tom. “We + don't want no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a + little later on!” + </p> + <p> + In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before + the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places, + but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for an + outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less sulphurous, + although the presence of the ladies interfered very considerably with + Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like galley slaves, and + rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they took it all with good + humour, though some few who had the misfortune to fall specially under his + tongue began to show signs that the lash had bitten into the raw. The + timbers of the last bent were specially heavy, and the men, more or less + fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring to their work with the + alacrity that Tom deemed suitable. + </p> + <p> + “At it, min!” he roared. “Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd + think it was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now + thin! Togither-r-r—heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an + inch that time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what in + the blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees on a + cowld day! Shift over there, will ye!” + </p> + <p> + In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same moment, + leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to sustain the + full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent swayed backward as + if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men sprang back from under + the huge bent. It was a moment of supreme peril. + </p> + <p> + “Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!” howled Tom, “or + the hull of ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes.” + </p> + <p> + At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves + upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by others, and the calamity + was averted. + </p> + <p> + “Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!” cried Tom. But + there was a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men stand + in the presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was + walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the + building, his face white, his voice shaking. “Give me yer hand, + Barney Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid + Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!” + </p> + <p> + Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them on + the back with varied exclamations. “You're the lads!” “Good + boys!” “You're the stuff!” “Put it there!” + </p> + <p> + “What are ye doin' to us?” cried Rory at last; “I didn't + see anything happen. Did you, Barney?” + </p> + <p> + “We did, though,” answered the crowd. + </p> + <p> + For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing + hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had seen + as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men had + been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again relieved the strain. + </p> + <p> + “Did any of you hear the cowbell?” he said. “It strikes + me it's not quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Rory and Tom for captains!” cried a voice. + </p> + <p> + “Not me, by the powers!” said Tom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same + place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an' brains + I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney there. He's + the man, I kin tell ye.” + </p> + <p> + This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy. + </p> + <p> + “Barney it is!” “Rory and Barney!” they yelled. + </p> + <p> + “Me!” cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. + “I have never done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising + all my life.” + </p> + <p> + There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had Barney's + reputation for agility, nerve and quickness. + </p> + <p> + “Carry pins, is it?” said Tom. “Ye can carry yer head + level, me boy. So at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then,” cried Barney, “I will, if you give me first + choice, and I'll take Tom here.” + </p> + <p> + “Hooray!” yelled Tom, “I'm wid ye.” So it was + agreed, and in a few minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows + falling to Rory as last choice. + </p> + <p> + “We'll give ye Ben,” said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to + him. “We don't want to hog on ye too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind, Ben,” said Rory, as the little Englishman + strutted to his place among Rory's men. “You'll earn your supper + to-day with the best of them.” + </p> + <p> + “If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!” cried Ben, to + the huge delight of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there + was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should complete each + its part of the structure first. The main plates, the “purline” + plates, posts and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set + securely in position. The side whose last man was first down from the + building after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing + lines a hundred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told + off to “ride” the plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy + lot they were, quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure + of foot, men to be depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an + empire. The choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, + side. + </p> + <p> + “Niver fret, Barney,” cried Tom Magee, who in the near + approach of battle was his own man again. “Niver ye fret. It's + birrds we are, an' the more air for us the better.” + </p> + <p> + Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't they splendid!” said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. + Boyle, her cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. “Oh, + if I were only a boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Mrs. Boyle, “ye'd be riding the plate, I + doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!” answered the girl, + with her eyes upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young + captain, whose rugged face showed pale even at that distance. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, men,” cried the framer. “Mind your pins. Are + you ready?” holding his hat high in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Ready,” answered Rory. + </p> + <p> + Barney nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Git then!” he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. + Like hounds after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the + tape, they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men + possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps, + wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan. + </p> + <p> + “Well done, Rory! He's up first!” cried a girl whose brilliant + complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her relationship to + the captain of the north side. + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see,” cried Margaret. + “Oh, Barney, hurry! hurry!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, he will need to hurry,” cried Rory's sister, + mercilessly exultant. “He's up! He's up!” + </p> + <p> + Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had + just “broken it down,” and in half a minute, seized by the men + detailed for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, + three men with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second + half was making its appearance over the bent, to be seized and placed and + pinned as its mate had been. + </p> + <p> + “He's won! He's won!” shrieked Rory's admiring faction. + </p> + <p> + “Barney! Barney!” screamed his contingent reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!” + </p> + <p> + “Beaten, indeed!” was the scornful reply. “Just wait a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “They're at the 'purlines'!” shrieked Rory's sister, and her + friends, proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of expressing + emotion under such circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “My!” sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, + suffering unutterable pangs of humiliation. “Some people don't mind + making a show of themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?” cried Margaret, to whose + eager spirit Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow. + </p> + <p> + But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been + carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of his + men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been making + ready the “purlines” and laying the rafters in order so that, + although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once + his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in more + or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters moved + to their positions as if by magic. Consequently, though when they arrived + at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his rafters + were lifted almost as one into their places. + </p> + <p> + At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been + enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating defeat, rose + in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a series + of ear-piercing but altogether rapturous shrieks. + </p> + <p> + “They're down! They're down!” screamed Margaret, dancing in an + ecstasy of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at braces, + slipping, sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from + incredible distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous + shouts of victory a heart-rending scream rang out, followed by a + shuddering groan and dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped + from its splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and + swinging free, fell crashing through the timbers upon the scurrying, + scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who + was madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by + good fortune against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path + of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking at + last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben + Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment two + or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and screaming and + carried to an open grassy spot. After some moments of confusion Barney was + seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry after his horse. A stretcher was + hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow placed thereon, to which + Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly lifted. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go wid ye,” said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and + hat. + </p> + <p> + Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself + together. “Stop a bit, Barney,” he said. He beckoned Rory to + his side. “Tell them,” he said between his gasps, “not + to spoil their supper for me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps + I hearned it.” + </p> + <p> + “And that you did, lad,” cried Rory. “No man better, and + I'll tell them.” + </p> + <p> + The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out + into admiring expletives, “Good boy, Benny!” “Benny's + the stuff!” till finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, + “Three cheers for Benny!” and the feelings of the crowd, held + in check for so many minutes, at length found expression in three times + three, and with the cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his + drawn face, poor Ben, forgetting his agony for the time, was borne away on + his three-mile drive to the doctor. + </p> + <p> + The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <h3> + THE DANCE + </h3> + <p> + The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' gate. + They were met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, with a group of girls + and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they drove into the yard + they were met at once with eager questions as to the condition and fate of + the unhappy Ben. + </p> + <p> + “Ben, is it?” said Tom. “Indeed, it's a hero we've + discovered. He stud it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there are two av + thim,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Barney. “Ye ought to + have seen him stand there houldin' the light an' passin' the doctor + sthrings, an' the blood spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, + it's mesilf can't tell ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by mesilf on + the floor on the broad av me back, an' naither av thim takin' annythin' to + do wid me except to drown me wid watther betune times. Indeed, it's + himsilf is the born doctor, an' so he is,” continued Tom, warming to + his theme, “for wid his hands red wid blood an' his face as white as + yer apron, ma'am, niver a shiver did he give until the last knot was tied + an' the last stitch was sewed. Bedad! there's not a man in the county + could do the same.” + </p> + <p> + There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts Barney + finally gave it up, and began unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound of + the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the silence there rose a + voice in song to the accompaniment of some stringed instrument. It was an + arresting voice. The group about the horse stood perfectly still as the + voice rose and soared and sank and rose again in an old familiar + plantation air. + </p> + <p> + “Who in thunder is that?” cried Barney, turning to his mother. + </p> + <p> + But his mother shook her head. “Indeed, I know not, but it's likely + yon strange girl that came out from town with the Murrays.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss + of her head, “Alec told me. She is the girl who has come to take the + teacher's place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her + father was a colonel in the Southern army, California or Virginia or some + place, I don't just remember. Oh! I know all about her, Alec told me,” + continued Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy curls. “And + she'll have a string of hearts dangling to her apron, if she wears one, + before the month is out, so you'd better mind out, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + But Barney was not heeding her. “Hush!” he said, holding up + his hand, for again the voice was rising up clear and full into the night + silence. Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till the verse + was finished. + </p> + <p> + “She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney,” continued Teenie + wickedly. “You'll just need to take her with you to the Mill.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house,” + said the mother, speaking sharply. + </p> + <p> + “She has no mother,” said Margaret softly, “and she will + need a place.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that she will,” replied Mrs. Boyle, “and I know + very well where she will be going, too, and you with four little ones to + do for, not to speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot.” Mrs. + Boyle was evidently seriously angered. + </p> + <p> + “Man! What a voice!” breathed Barney, and, making fast the + horse to the waggon, he set off for the barn apparently oblivious of all + about him. + </p> + <p> + “Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows + what's in that lad. But he'll stir the world yit, an' so he will. An' + that's what the ould Doctor said, so it was.” + </p> + <p> + When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just finished her + song, and with her guitar still in her hands was idly strumming its + strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as to reveal + the ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous depths of her dark eyes. It + was a face of rare and romantic beauty framed in soft, fluffy, dark hair, + brushed high off the forehead and gathered in a Greek knot at the back of + her head. But besides the beauty of face and eyes, there was an air of + gentle, appealing innocence that awakened the chivalrous instincts latent + in every masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace that set her in + striking contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids so perfectly able + to care for themselves, asking odds of no man. When the singing ceased + Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side, and, reaching for the + violin, said, “Let me spell you a bit, Dad.” + </p> + <p> + At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, turned + quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for him, shouting, “Hello! you + old whale, you!” The father hastily pulled his precious violin out + of danger. + </p> + <p> + “Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!” said Barney, struggling in + his brother's embrace; “stop it, now!” + </p> + <p> + With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard with an + embarrassed, half-shamed, half-indignant laugh. The crowd gathered near in + delighted expectation. There was always something sure to happen when Dick + “got after” his older brother. + </p> + <p> + “He won't let me kiss him,” cried Dick pitifully, to the huge + enjoyment of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “It's too bad, Dick,” they cried. + </p> + <p> + “So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!” + replied Dick, in a hurt tone. “And me just home, too.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a minute,” cried + his sympathisers. + </p> + <p> + “I won't either,” cried Dick, preparing to make an attack. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Dick,” cried Barney impatiently, “just quit + your nonsense or I'll throw you on the floor there and sit on you. + Besides, you're spoiling the music.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, that's so,” said Dick. “So on Miss Lane's + account I'll forbear, provided, that is, she sings again, as, of course, + she will.” + </p> + <p> + It was Dick's custom to assume command in every company where he found + himself. + </p> + <p> + “What is it to be? 'Dixie'?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! Yes!” cried the crowd. “'Dixie.' We'll give you + the chorus.” + </p> + <p> + After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into + that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney picked + up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found her key + and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. The girl + turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as if she had + caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness and + tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd were + entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient for the + renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to Dick, + who had resumed his place beside her. “Who is the man you wanted so + badly to kiss?” she asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” he cried, so that everyone heard. “What! don't + you know? That's Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, + Barney, drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from + Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie + line.” + </p> + <p> + Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and + awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the block + where she had been sitting. + </p> + <p> + “You accompany beautifully,” she said in her soft Southern + drawl; “it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to + accompany like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw! That's nothing,” said Barney, eager to get back + again to his shadow, “but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you + if you sing again.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” cried Dick, “she'll sing again. What will + you give us now, white or black?” + </p> + <p> + “Plantation, of course,” said Barney brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?” cried Dick. + </p> + <p> + The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. “Do they all + obey you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask them.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what,” cried Alec Murray, “especially the girls.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then turning + to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked for, “You, + too, obey, I see,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Generally—, always when I like,” he replied, continuing + to play. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” shrugging her shoulders, “I suppose I must + then.” And she began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home.” + </pre> + <p> + Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its + dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice + soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello, + supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. No + voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves came + back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion and + abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing tide + of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness of tone + colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of unutterable + depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the spell. As + before, silence followed the song. + </p> + <p> + “But you did not do your part,” she said, smiling up at him + with a very pretty air of embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Dick solemnly, “we didn't dare.” + </p> + <p> + “Sing again,” said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and + hoarse, and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, “Music, + when it's good, makes him quite batty.” + </p> + <p> + But Iola ignored him. “Did you ever hear this?” she said to + Barney. She strummed a few chords on her guitar. “It's only a little + baby song, one my old mammy used to sing.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', + Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. + Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', + So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass. + + CHORUS: + + “Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. + Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! + De angels want you, guess I know, + But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so. + + “Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, + Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, + De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, + Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah. + + “Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? + Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? + But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' + An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'.” + </pre> + <p> + A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat + quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain over + and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal to the + mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep + places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some moments they + stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that Dick released + the tension by crying out, “Partners for four-hand reel.” + Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood + waiting for the music. + </p> + <p> + “Strike up, Barney,” cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before + Iola, whom he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin + to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret + were standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan. + </p> + <p> + “Come away,” he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't she beautiful?” cried Margaret impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!” + </p> + <p> + “Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt,” said Mrs. Boyle + grimly, with a sharp glance at her son. + </p> + <p> + But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away as + in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, for soon the + dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream mood + during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to Margaret and + his mother of his College experiences, but except for an occasional word + with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the fields and woods + that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that new world, + vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon lay beyond the line of + vision, the world of his imagination, where he must henceforth live and + where his work must lie. For the events of the afternoon had summoned a + new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but real and terribly insistent, + demanding recognition. He could not analyse the change that had come to + him, nor could he account for it. He did not try to. He lived again those + great moments when, having been thrust by chance into the command of these + fifty mighty men, he had swung them to victory. He remembered the ease, + the perfect harmony with which his faculties had wrought through those few + minutes of fierce struggle. Again he passed through the awful ordeal of + the operation, now holding the light, now assisting with forceps or cord + or needle, now sponging away that ghastly red flow that could not be + stemmed. He wondered now at his self-mastery. He could see again his + fingers, bloody, but unshaking, handing the old doctor a needle and silk + cord. He remembered his surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom + Magee lying on the floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the + strange absence of anything like elation at the doctor's words, “My + boy, you have the nerve and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your + Maker intended you to be.” + </p> + <p> + But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the + interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned + before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, eager, + tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in the hindmost + row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the upturned face of + the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in the mystery of the + moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly + passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic touch that rolled + back the screen and set before him the new world which must henceforth be + his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs + worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was certainly not the + songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her personality, + her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate place in his + thought. He was conscious of her presence there as a subtle yet powerful + influence, but as something detached from the upturned face illumined in + the soft moonlight and the stream of heart-shaking song. She was to him + thus far simply a vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in + him made eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it came upon + him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done forever. He + felt himself already detached from it. The new self looking out upon its + new world had shaken off his boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the + husks of spring. + </p> + <p> + As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon + his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his + brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had + immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, it + is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, + indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his boyish devotion, + must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon this thought his + brother's voice broke in. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?” + </p> + <p> + The kindly tone stabbed like a knife. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Nothing, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but there is. You're not the same.” At the anxious + appeal in the voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his + brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of + change that he could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his + brother. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Dick—I can't tell you—I don't think I am + the same.” A look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the + frank, handsome face turned toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Have I done anything, Barney?” said the younger boy, his + dismay showing in his tone. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you.” He put his + hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever + allowed himself. “It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the + same.” His speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: “And + whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you—remember + that, Dick, to you I shall never change.” His breath was coming in + quick gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative + brother. Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken + voice, “You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't + want to live.” + </p> + <p> + For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his shoulder + gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, “Well, I am a + blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, I + don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all the + same, Dick,” he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “we + must expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till + the world cracks.” + </p> + <p> + After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother sat + together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable custom. + </p> + <p> + “He is looking thin, I am thinking,” said the mother. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals + out of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever.” + </p> + <p> + “That was a fine work of yours with the doctor.” The + indifferent tone did not deceive her son for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There + were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I + just did what I could.” The mother nodded slightly. + </p> + <p> + “You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be + doing something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. + But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never + a slip or a stop.” He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far + away for some moments. “Yes, fine! Splendid!” he continued as + in a dream. “And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a + surgeon. That's it. I see now—mother, I'm going to be a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + His mother stood and faced him. “A doctor? You?” + </p> + <p> + The sharp tone recalled her son. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, me. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “And Richard?” + </p> + <p> + Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long ago + when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his as they set + forth to school for the first time, said, “Take care of your + brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge.” That very day and + many a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought for him, had + pulled him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and + reckless spirit were frequently plunging him, but never once had he + consciously failed in the trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed + exceptional brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, + the mother and the older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, + the brother accepting as his part the life of plodding obscurity in order + that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and college + could do for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the mother had + fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's lips the word + of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was demanding, she had + drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus to the mother it + seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, amounting to sacrilege, that + Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself an ambition whose + realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney needed, therefore, + no explanation of his mother's cry of dismay, almost of horror. He was + quick with his answer. + </p> + <p> + “Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course + nothing must stop Dick. I can wait—but I am going to be a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its firm + lines, and replied almost grudgingly, “Ay, I doubt you will.” + Then she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, “And + what for should you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, mother,” said her son humbly, “and never + fear we'll stand by Dick.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood + watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, + she said aloud: “Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the + nerve and the fingers whatever.” Then after a pause she added: + “And he will not fail the laddie, I warrant.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <h3> + THE NEW TEACHER + </h3> + <p> + The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her + beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy + womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the + fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of + her face, so much so that little Ruby Ross was heard to say: “And do + you know, mother, she smiles with her nose!” The almost timid appeal + in her gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. + Back of her appealing gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud + command due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling + race. But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon + sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, based + upon two fundamental principles: regard for public opinion, and hope of + reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in the presence + of the great if somewhat vague public which at times she individualized, + as she became familiar with her pupils, in the person of father or mother + or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous skill she played + this string, albeit occasionally she struck a false note. + </p> + <p> + “What would your father think, Lincoln?” she inquired + reproachfully of little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down + Easterner, by name Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, “Maine + Jabe,” for his fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. + “What would your father think if he saw you act so rudely?” + </p> + <p> + “Dad wouldn't care a dang.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?” + </p> + <p> + Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. + He hung his head in blushing silence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman + if you tried hard.” A new idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch + of hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one + visibly present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good + opinion he must win. + </p> + <p> + The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. + The day would surely come when before the eyes of the public they would + parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready. + </p> + <p> + But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This + principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature of the + reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably + closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To recite + before the teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth considerable + effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear the teacher sing + to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. It was not + only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, but an hour of training as well. + She initiated them into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, + phrasing, and expression, and such was their absorbing interest in and + devotion to this study, that in a few weeks truly remarkable results were + obtained. The singing lesson invariably concluded with a plantation song + from the teacher; and with her memory-gates wide open to the sunny South + of her childhood, and with all her soul in her voice, she gave them her + best, holding them breathless, laughterful, or tear-choked, according to + her mood and song. + </p> + <p> + It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on his + way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of movement + till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to old Hector + Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be in the store: + </p> + <p> + “Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I + couldn't git my team to move past that there door!” + </p> + <p> + “What's matter, Mr. Young?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know + there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession blockin' + that there road in front of the school!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?” inquired + old Hector, in anxious surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one + 'time to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to be the + dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she + ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's like + the angel that leads the choir in Abram's bosom!” + </p> + <p> + “That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind + paying a little extra school rate now,” said Hector, with a shrewd + twinkle in his eye. + </p> + <p> + “Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to + the trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song + again!” + </p> + <p> + In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher + introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all else + failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the + individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of one + the merit of all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in the business + of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went on each + misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked down upon + the blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like manner + recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour of song. + Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, persisted + in robbing the school of its hour of delight. In the case of Ab Maddock, + big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, the minister's + son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract a promise of good + behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, peaceable boy, the most + advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a great mathematician. At first + he was inclined to despise the teacher, setting little store by her + beautiful face and fascinating smile, for on the very first day he + discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her despair. + With algebraic formulae and Euclid's propositions her fine memory saved + her. But with quick intuition she threw herself frankly upon the boy's + generosity, and in the evenings together they, with Margaret's assistance, + wrestled with the bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her + open confession of helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her + defects, made irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little + Highland gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in + him. + </p> + <p> + But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement + there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of her endowments in + those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility + play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, do + these Divine gifts play than many wise educationists conceive. The lessons + in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks + and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay its ordinary + work to listen while the teacher told tales of the brave days of old to + the history class, or transformed the geography lessons into excursions + among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. But it was in the + reading lessons that her artistic talents had full play. The mere + pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents in the way of + expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week of drilling which + she would give to a single lesson, she would arrest the class with the + question, “What is the author seeing?” and with the further + question, “How does he try to show it to us?” Reading, to her, + consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of telling + it, and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's words. + </p> + <p> + In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot + might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. + “Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!” she would + cry, rubbing out with infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the + horror of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes of the vague but + terrible “they.” + </p> + <p> + Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither + wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. As a + consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both + teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and so + accustomed to the vision of the onlooking public that they faced the + ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or + accomplishment they might possess. + </p> + <p> + A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall + wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents and friends + of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. Of + the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother + insisted that a student should show interest in the school, his mother + because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not + because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to + himself, conscious of the need of a reason, because there was nothing much + else to do. The presence of “Maine” Jabe might be taken as the + high water mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new + teacher and her methods. + </p> + <p> + The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly + flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the entrance + class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The arithmetic, + which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the various + products of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. The algebra + class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as if the + hitherto unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the bewilderment + and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from whom the minister had asked a + demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's + bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in placing the + figure upon the board with the letters designating the isosceles triangle + he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right hand side + of the base instead of at its proper place at the left, as in the book. + The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring the figure upon the board + and depending entirely upon her memory, soon plunged both the minister and + herself into confusion hopeless and complete. But the quick eye of the + teacher had detected the difficulty, and, going to the board, she erased + the unfamiliar figure, saying, as she did so, in her gentle appealing + voice, “Wait, Phoebe. You are quite confused, I know. We shall wipe + the board clean and begin all over.” She placed the figure upon the + board with the designating letters arranged as in the book. “Now, + take your time,” she said with deliberate emphasis. “Let A, B, + C be an isosceles triangle.” And thus, with her feet set firmly upon + the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of + angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and dexterity that elicited the + wonder and admiration of all present, the minister, good man, included. + Upon Barney, however, who understood perfectly what had happened, the + incident left a decidedly unpleasant impression. Indeed, the + superficiality of the mathematical exercises as a whole awakened within + him a feeling of pain which he could not explain. + </p> + <p> + When the reading classes were under review the school passed from the + atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had such reading + been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar sing-song + monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a real and vivid + picturing of the scenes described or enacted. It was all simple, natural, + and effective. + </p> + <p> + The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing + which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full + scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By + some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so that + for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the singing, + which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day was complete. A + single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto unheard in + that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at the last, “for + the children and the mothers,” the teacher said, one soft lullaby in + which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, vibrant + tones filling the room with music such as in all their lives they had + never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values that cut out the + speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way. The full tide of + their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, parents, and all + crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air of shy grace with + just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small degree to heighten + the whole effect of the day. + </p> + <p> + The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't she a wonder?” cried Dick. “What has she done to + those little blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” replied the minister, “it is quite + surprising, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for + a while,” continued Dick. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered + herself cleverly.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” said Dick, with a slight laugh. “That was + a clever bit of work on the part of the teacher.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shut up, Dick!” said Barney sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” replied Dick, “no one expects mathematics + from a girl, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear the conceit of him?” said his mother indignantly, + “and Margaret there can show all of you the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But + whatever you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link + Young was quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in + his life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates.” + </p> + <p> + “We will just wait a year,” said his mother. “It is a + new broom that sweeps clean.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, mother, you are too hard to please.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she replied, grimly closing her lips. + </p> + <p> + As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently been + pondering Dick's words, said, “Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a + delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And + after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to read + and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would seek to + make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take Dugald + over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance.” At + which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing had caused + Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater poignancy. + </p> + <p> + But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, at + all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the trustees + realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon the sole + qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It was, + perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing of the + teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were moved to + immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part to leave the + matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands, however, they were + applauded as having done a good stroke of business when, there and then, + they closed their bargain with the teacher, although at a higher salary, + as it turned out, than had ever been paid in the section before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <h3> + THE YOUNG DOCTOR + </h3> + <p> + Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a + square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge and + bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of + character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he + would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He would + be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult the only + authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for + the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and a chin + and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost + defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The + doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour and ended by + offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused it. + </p> + <p> + “What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his + only son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have + plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had + my boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But—” + Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his + nose. “Confound these foggy nights! I'll put you through.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll + stay at home.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy. + </p> + <p> + “I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded + fool and work up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the + examinations till the last year, when he must attend college.” + </p> + <p> + “I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws. + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like a + ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if + I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.” + The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can!” he cried impulsively, “and I'll be + awfully thankful. You can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, + perhaps, if you have time.” His face went suddenly crimson. He was + conscious of asking a favour. + </p> + <p> + The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first time + treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of study, + making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he waved his + hand toward his library. + </p> + <p> + “Now, there are my books,” he cried; “use them and ask + me what you will. It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases + and, by God's help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got + the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. + The physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He + guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, + guessing and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!” + Here the doctor rose and began to pace the floor. “There's no guess + in the knife point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! + Look at that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the + physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the + postmortem”—here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his + voice almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy—“at the + post-mortem the knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The + discovery was made too late.” These were the days before + appendicitis became fashionable. “Now, listen to me,” + continued the doctor, even more impressively, “I believe in my soul + that the knife at the proper moment might have saved that boy's life! A + slight incision an inch or two long, the removal of the diseased part, a + few stitches, and in a couple of weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows + I'd give my life to be a great surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. + Look at these,” and he held up a coarse, heavy hand; “I + haven't the touch. And besides, He brought me my wife, the best thing I've + got in the world, and my baby, which settled the surgeon business forever. + Now listen, boy! You've got the nerve—plenty of men have that—but + you've also got the fingers, which few men have. With your touch and your + steady nerve and your mechanical ingenuity—I've seen your machines, + boy—you can be a great surgeon! But you must know your subject. You + must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinews and + nerves. Push everything else aside!” he cried, waving his great + hands. “And remember!”—here his voice took a solemn tone—“let + nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone. A woman + has no business in science. She distracts the mind, disturbs the liver, + absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. For you, let + there be one woman, your mother, at least till you are a surgeon. Now, + then, there are my books and all my spare time at your command.” At + these words the boy's face, which had caught the light and glow of the old + man's enthusiasm, fell. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what now?” cried the doctor, reading his face like a + book. + </p> + <p> + “I have no right to take your books or your time.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced + him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly + regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes + softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Now, by the Lord that made you and me!” he said, “we + were meant for a team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make + you pay.” The boy's face brightened. + </p> + <p> + “How?” he cried eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “We'll change work.” The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. + “I want fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll do it!” cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and + flooded his face. At last he saw his path. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said the doctor, taking down a book, “here's + your Gray.” And turning the leaves, “Here's what happened to + Ben Fallows. Read this. And here's the treatment,” pulling down + another book and turning to a page, “Read that. I'll make Ben your + first patient. There's no money in it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He + only needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. By and by + we'll get him a leg. Here's that Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it + along. Now, boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go for your first + examination next spring.” + </p> + <p> + “Next spring!” cried Barney, aghast, “not for three + years.” + </p> + <p> + “Three years!” snorted the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! + You can do this first examination by next spring.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I could do it,” said Barney slowly. + </p> + <p> + The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face. + </p> + <p> + “But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?” + </p> + <p> + The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in its + cracks and canyons. + </p> + <p> + “Because—well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. + He's awful clever.” Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and + tone. “Mother wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after + a pause, “I do, too.” + </p> + <p> + The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few + minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. + “I understand, boy,” he said, his great voice vibrating in + deep and tender tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a + minister if you want, but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife.” + </p> + <p> + The boy went home to his mother in high exultation. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. + “He is going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is + cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he + is to get good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are + more than I can tell.” + </p> + <p> + “Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. + How many has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?” + </p> + <p> + “There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't + allow the figure to remain at that.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking + with the confidence of intimate knowledge. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a + question whether it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky + number, or to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already + overburdened olive tree.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.” + </p> + <p> + “Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific + Mrs. Fallows!” + </p> + <p> + “Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't + talk foolishly.” + </p> + <p> + “But you said four, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let us hope she won't get + the habit.” + </p> + <p> + “But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously, “what's to be + done?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I can't tell,” said his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” cried Dick, “I've got an inspiration. + I'll undertake the 'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this + worthy service. Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, + mother, can't you?” + </p> + <p> + “We will see,” said the mother quietly; “we will do our + best.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case the 'food department' is secure,” said Dick; + “already I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward + convalescence.” + </p> + <p> + It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three + departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making Mrs. + Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in Ben's + little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger of + microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular + imagination. + </p> + <p> + “Microbes? What's them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Very small insects.” + </p> + <p> + “Insects? Is it bugs you mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became + fiercely hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no + bugs in this 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. + John sez to me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I + sez to 'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with + bugs, an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'” + </p> + <p> + It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes was + no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that these + mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles, that + Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his + “good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' + susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that in surgical cases + such as Ben's certain articles of diet specially prepared were necessary + to the best results. + </p> + <p> + Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that + furnished by the “good cheer” department. This was left + entirely in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with + the enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his + mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade + Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other duties, + and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly with Mrs. Boyle + in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat unappetising though + entirely substantial meals with delicacies more suited to the sickroom. + Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola and himself in the “good + cheer” department and Barney in what he called the “scavenging” + department could achieve, there was still need of Margaret's presence and + Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest time came upon them, he + made a practice of calling at the manse, and, relieving her of the duty of + getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, with whom he was first + favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows household, whither Barney + and Iola had preceded them. + </p> + <p> + Altogether the “young doctor,” as Ben called him, had reason + to be proud of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The + amputation healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a + few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in + his praises of the “young doctor.” It was the “young + doctor” who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the + intolerable pain which followed the first dressing. It was the “young + doctor” who had changed the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit + the limb, bringing ease where there had been chafing pain. + </p> + <p> + “Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want,” was Ben's final + conclusion, “but fer me, the young doctor, sez I.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <h3> + THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + </h3> + <p> + The “good cheer” department, while ostensibly for Ben's + benefit, wrought profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it + no one but himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent + frankness, kept the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed + in his new work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new ambitions, the + “good cheer” department was chiefly valued as an important + factor in Ben's progress. To Iola it brought what to her was the breath of + life, admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more than + any, not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what + might be called its by-products. The daily monotony of her household + duties bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though + cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite + abandoned without a sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the work + of the department in the monotony of her life, the companionship of its + members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her keen + sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly cheery + Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra effort which her + membership in the department rendered necessary. + </p> + <p> + It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick with + Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at the Fallows + cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as she was + about to depart to town for her holidays. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to say good-bye,” she announced as she shook + hands with Mrs. Fallows. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear 'eart,” said that lady, throwing up her hands + aghast; “art goin' to leave us fer good?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing so bad,” said Dick; “only for a few weeks, + Mrs. Fallows. The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees have + decided that they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string + on her.” + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' + to leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as + 'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't wonder,” said Dick. “Why, if the trustees + hadn't engaged her, as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of + riot in the section.'” + </p> + <p> + “Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, if + I may.” + </p> + <p> + “An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!” said Mrs. Fallows, + picking up a twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the + inner room. “Ther' now,” she continued to Margaret, who was + moving about putting things to rights, “don't yeh go tirin' of + yerself. I know things is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things + piles up terr'ble, an' I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to + straighten 'em up. Jest look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, 'I + cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless + their 'earts! it's all I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep + the rags on their backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, + lass, 'bout the rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a + bare back,' sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' + cleverlike, is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!” + she continued in an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich + melody from the next room. “An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor + Benny! it's a sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' + a-mutilatin' of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at + more'n my share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits + 'is hamputation an' 'is splits.” + </p> + <p> + “His splints,” cried Margaret; “are they all right now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Since the young doctor—that's w'at Benny calls 'im—change + 'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young + doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see,” continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, + and again lowering her voice impressively, “yeh see, 'is leg 'urt + most orful at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me toes, mother, it's + in me toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' + 'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes + right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right + enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e + tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! + an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. + Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say,” and here Mrs. + Fallows' voice dropped quite to a whisper, “as 'ow that keeps 'em + sore all the longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor + 'isself, an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is + toes. 'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. 'Tain't yer + toes, Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite + sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. 'E's + a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them toes + buried, if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite + hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez + father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' rotted away + in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's boy. 'Nonsense,' sez + the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as nothin' to do with it.' + 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's + feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no + toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's hain't in 'is toes at all.' + 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. 'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my + toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez + the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in + yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short + again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is + 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp + any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, + puttin' 'im off. But father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' + sez, 'Don't 'is mind know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind + feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It + hain't 'is toes, I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the + feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' + sez father. 'But 'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes + in 'is mind or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite + losin' 'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is + toes used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is + toes is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make + 'im stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't + 'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start that + ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need no toes to + start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes a-keepin' up.' + 'Ther' hain't no—' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it hain't toes, + it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't yeh see? W'en + the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the + telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them nerves, doctor?' + sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone them + nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve feelin' is ther' + still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the feelin's in the + nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's so,' sez the + doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is gone. 'Ow could + ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an' I was feared 'e + was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, well. All right, + doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble inquirin' mind, an' + I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of + 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll + hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph wire. 'Ere's a station we'll + call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll call London. Hevery station 'as + 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever + X Y Z sounds yeh know that's Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in + London yeh'd know somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't + any,' breaks in father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' + sez the doctor, 'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line + yeh can give that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford + call houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e + seemed quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do + along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds up + to the brain, “Toes! Toes! Toes!” an' all 'long that toe line + yeh can git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long + time, then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' + ''Undreds of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? + calves? shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite + triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an' heverythin', all + them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not seein' + w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em all shout + “Toes?” W'y don't the brain 'ear “Hankle” or + “'Eel”?' Then the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear + at father most orful. But father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez + 'e quite dignified, 'I 'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This + pulls the old doctor up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez + 'e. 'Don't mention it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, + 'Yeh see, Mr. Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things + very well,' sez 'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot + of trouble if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed + 'im thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, + 'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels or + hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little 'ouse, + yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. An' I suppose + w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankle, or 'eel, + but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' 'e sez, as 'e druv' + away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin' them toes?'” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, “I do + talk. But poor Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' + blessed young lady come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she + begin to sing, poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to + sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e + hain't ever done talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. + An' a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by Mrs. + Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola reappeared. + </p> + <p> + “Well, good-bye,” said Mrs. Fallows. “Yeh'll come agin + w'en yeh git back. Good-bye, Miss,” she said to Margaret. “It + does seem to give me a fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights.” + </p> + <p> + It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for bed + that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang. + </p> + <p> + “It can't be that I am jealous,” she said. “Of course, + she is far more attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her + better?” She shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. “Do + you know, you are as mean as you can be,” she said viciously. + </p> + <p> + At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing. + </p> + <p> + “It's no wonder,” said Margaret as she listened to the + exquisite sound, “it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and + his mother with a voice like that. Yes, and—and the rest of them, + too.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her hair + hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an + involuntary exclamation of admiration. + </p> + <p> + “My! you are lovely!” she cried. “No wonder everyone + loves you.” With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for her “mean + thoughts” she put her arms about Iola and kissed her warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Lovely! Nonsense!” she exclaimed, surprised at this display + of affection so unusual for Margaret, “I am not half so lovely as + you. When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the + children to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself + cheap and worthless.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and + mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you go + the people just fall down and worship you.” As she spoke she let + down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a + golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked critically + at her. + </p> + <p> + “You are beautiful,” she said slowly. “Your hair is + lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I + can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. + That's it,” she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, “I + can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall + make people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, + people would forget me. They wouldn't forget you.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense!” said Margaret brusquely. “It is not + your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, + something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young + fellows are daft about you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the women don't care for me,” said Iola, with the same + slow, thoughtful voice. “If I wanted very much I believe I could + make them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you're talking nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. + “You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” continued Iola, ignoring her remark, “the women + all like you, and the men, too, in a way.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “When + you're around the boys don't look at me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they do,” said Iola, as if pondering the question. + “Ben does.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret laughed scornfully. “Ben likes my jelly.” + </p> + <p> + “And Dick does,” continued Iola, “and Barney.” + Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the + glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush + spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” she cried angrily, “those boys! Of course, they + like me. I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go + swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like—well—just + like a boy, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had + a chance to be anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Be anything!” cried Margaret hotly. “Why, Dick's going + to be a minister and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. + But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?” + </p> + <p> + “Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,” + replied Margaret indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey + little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any + stir.” To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the “unheard + of.” “And yet,” she went on, “if he had a chance—” + </p> + <p> + But Margaret could bear this no longer. “What are you talking about? + There are plenty of good men who are never heard of.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” cried Iola quickly, “I didn't mean—of course + your father. Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to + sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. + And I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't + bear to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you.” + As she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms + around her neck. Margaret relented. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I love you,” she said. “There,” kissing + her, “good-night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty.” + </p> + <p> + But Iola clung to her. “Good-night, dear Margaret,” she said, + her lips trembling pathetically. “You are the only girl friend I + ever had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me.” + </p> + <p> + “I never forget my friends,” cried Margaret gravely. “And + I never cease to love them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, + “don't turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me.” + </p> + <p> + “You little goose,” cried Margaret, caressing her as if she + were a child, “of course I will always love you. Good-night now.” + She kissed Iola tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” said Iola. “You know this is my last night + with you for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the very last,” said Margaret. “We go to the Mill + to-morrow night, you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is + going to have Ben there for nursing and feeding.” + </p> + <p> + Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of a + new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of + interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in what + was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving machines + for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's invention, + were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing machine with + the same power, but his mother would have none of it. + </p> + <p> + Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a + crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only “paying + his board,” as Barney declared, but “earning good wages as + well.” + </p> + <p> + The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It + was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave her + home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she + regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar + pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It + was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting to + demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. “Ben + needs you,” he argued. “And Iola will not come unless with + you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer + and refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all + want you. You must come.” It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and + her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at + times, that finally weighed with her. + </p> + <p> + The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old + flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in the + shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful delight + to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall in harvest + weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool air is beginning + to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their work was done the + boys hurried to join the little group under the big willows. They were all + there. Ben was set there in the big armchair, Mrs. Boyle with her + knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, Margaret with a book which + she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent content, Iola lazily + strumming her guitar and occasionally singing in her low, rich voice some + of her old Mammy's songs or plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, + Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To her they bordered dangerously on + sacrilege; nor did she ever quite fully abandon herself to delight in the + guitar. It continued to be a “foreign” and “feckless” + sort of instrument. But in spite of her there were times when the old lady + paused in her knitting and sat with sombre eyes looking far across the + pond and into the shady isles of the woods on the other side while Iola + sang some of her quaint Southern “baby songs.” + </p> + <p> + Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and + love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep + through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms + of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock + at first that he heard the Southern girl with her “foreign + instrument” try over these songs that none but his mother had ever + sung to him. Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old + Highland airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly + took on a new beauty, but they lost something as well. + </p> + <p> + “No one sings them like your mother, Barney,” said Margaret + after Dick had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and + cadences, “and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They + are not the same a bit. They make me see different things and feel + different things when your mother sings.” + </p> + <p> + “Different how?” said Dick. + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my + mouth, just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich + creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Barney gravely. “They lose the Scotch + with the guitar. They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a + different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet + and a garden rose.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother,” cried Dick, + “sing us one now.” + </p> + <p> + “Me sing!” cried the mother aghast. “After yon!” + nodding toward Iola. “You would not be shaming your mother, Richard.” + </p> + <p> + “Shaming you, indeed!” cried Margaret, indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Do, Mrs. Boyle,” entreated Iola. “I have never heard + you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could sing.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word. + </p> + <p> + “Sing!” cried Dick. “You ought to hear her. Now, mother, + for the honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a + 'baby song,' too.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Barney quietly, “Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' + mother.” And he began to play that exquisite Highland lament. + </p> + <p> + It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl of + the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone + touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached + the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin + accompanying. + </p> + <p> + Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had the + exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of the + fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with a + penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the + quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As + she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in her + lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain and + glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her feet, + while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's face, + softened to tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that is too lovely!” cried Iola, when the song was done, + clapping her hands. “No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad.” + She hid her face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, + “I could never do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the + song? What is it?” she cried, turning to Barney. + </p> + <p> + “It's the moan of the sea,” said Barney gravely. + </p> + <p> + “It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside,” said Ben + Fallows. “There hain't no words fer it.” + </p> + <p> + “Sing again,” entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone + from her voice. “Sing just one more.” + </p> + <p> + “This one, mother,” said Barney, playing the tune, “your + mother used to sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How often haunting the highest hilltop, + I scan the ocean thy sail to see; + Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow? + Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me? + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be.” + </pre> + <p> + For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music + upon them. + </p> + <p> + “One more, mother,” entreated Dick. + </p> + <p> + “No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. + Aye, and for Margaret here.” + </p> + <p> + Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. “Thank you,” she + said, lifting up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, “you + have given me great pleasure to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, smitten + with a sudden pity for the motherless girl. “And we will be glad to + see ye when ye come back again.” + </p> + <p> + For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget + that afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Dick, striking an + attitude, “though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have + accomplished the purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to + have outlived its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for + itself a sphere of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without + injury to all its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the + department be organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the + Mill and my humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” said Barney with prompt heartiness. + </p> + <p> + “Me, too,” cried Iola, holding up both hands. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, what do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's + arm thrown about her, “how do you vote?” + </p> + <p> + “This member needs it too much”—with a somewhat + uncertain smile—“to say anything but 'Aye'.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Dick solemnly, “the 'good cheer' department + is hereby and henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the + community here represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will + continue in their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that + loyalty to this institution will be its highest reward.” + </p> + <p> + But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up for + them all in that same department of “good cheer.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <h3> + BEN'S GANG + </h3> + <p> + The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and + bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the + fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring + grain. + </p> + <p> + It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle boys. + They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the + mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little + farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide a + living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages, the + farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous binders + and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind something + more ambitious. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” said Dick, “did you hear of the new harvesting + gang?” + </p> + <p> + “And who might they be?” asked his mother, always on the + lookout for some nonsense from her younger son. + </p> + <p> + “Boyle and Fallows—or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. + Ben's starting with us Monday morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I + doubt, poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for + us. He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor + here says so. And he will keep us busy.” + </p> + <p> + “If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some + pumpkins at bindin', I hain't worth my feed.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Barney,” remonstrated his mother, “is he fit to go + about that machine? Something might happen the lad.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be + at hand all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? + You will only be hurting yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “You watch us, mother,” cried Dick. “We'll be after Ben + like a dog after a coon.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” said his mother. “I have heard that it takes + four good men to keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that + Mr. Morrison's Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to + follow up, the whole four of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” grunted Dick scornfully, “I suppose so. Four like + Fatty Morrison and that gang of his!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours,” + said his mother. + </p> + <p> + “It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine + compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, and you would be the better of it,” replied his + mother compassionately, “with your bones sticking through your skin!” + </p> + <p> + It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much + elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into partnership with + the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which poor Ben + consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking in him, + he was beginning to aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's care and + especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had quickened in Ben + new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed, and it was for + Ben's sake more than for their own that the boys had associated him with + them in their venture of taking harvesting contracts. And as the summer + went on they found no reason to regret the new arrangement. But it was at + the expense of long days and hard days for the two boys following the + reaper, and often when the day's work was done they could with difficulty + draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed, there were nights when Dick, + hardly the equal of his brother in weight and strength, lay sleepless from + sheer exhaustion, while Barney from sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. + Morning, however, found them stiff and sore, it is true, but full of + courage and ready for the renewal of the long-drawn struggle which was + winning for them not only very substantial financial profits, but also + high fame as workers. The end of the harvest found them hard, tough, full + of nerve and fit for any call within the limit of their powers. It was Ben + who furnished the occasion of such a call being made upon them. A rainy + day found him at the blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be + shod. The shop was full of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day + for the blacksmith. All odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine + weather were on that day brought to the shop. + </p> + <p> + Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a new + interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, there was a + disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose tongue + took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain. Withal, he had + a little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, though conscious of the + new interest centring in him, and though visibly swollen with the + importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys, he was exhibiting a + dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for that very reason, + provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary. + </p> + <p> + Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or “Fatty” + Morrison, as he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of + “Old King” Morrison, the richest and altogether most important + farmer in the district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the + blustering manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured + father, the “Old King.” But while bluster in the old man, who + had gained the respect and esteem that success generally brings, was + tolerated, in Sammy it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young + man had been entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads + with vivid descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on + the part of himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, + the latest and most notable achievement being the “slashing down and + tying up” of a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the + “Old King” himself driving the reaper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir!” shouted Sammy. “And Joe, he took the last + sheaf right off that table! You bet!” + </p> + <p> + “How many of you?” asked Ben sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Just four,” replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's + unexpected question. + </p> + <p> + “How many shocking?” continued Ben, with a judicial air. + </p> + <p> + “Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!” + </p> + <p> + “I guess so,” grunted Ben, “from what I've seed.” + </p> + <p> + Sam regarded him steadfastly. “And what have you 'seed,' Mr. + Fallows, may I ask?” he inquired with fine scorn. + </p> + <p> + “Seed? Seed you bindin', of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what are ye hootin' about?” Sam was exceedingly wroth. + </p> + <p> + “I hain't been talking much for the last hour.” In moments of + excitement Ben became uncertain of his h's. “I used to talk more + when I wasn't so busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere + 'arvest. We hain't had time. When we're on a job,” continued Ben, as + the crowd drew near to listen, “we hain't got time fer talkin', and + when we're through we don't feel like it. We don't need, to.” + </p> + <p> + A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words. + </p> + <p> + “You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers,” said Alec + Murray. “There ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a + pretty good day's work, Ben, ten acres.” + </p> + <p> + Ben gave a snort. “Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men.” He + had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at + whose hands he had suffered many things. + </p> + <p> + “Two men!” shouted Sammy. “Your gang, I suppose you + mean.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. “Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!” + he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. “Them's the two, if yeh want to + know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' + to see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait + to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they was + 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there.” Ben threw + his h's recklessly about. “You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh + never seed any.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment “King” Morrison himself entered the blacksmith + shop. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Ben grew suddenly quiet. “Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess,” + he growled. + </p> + <p> + “What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised,” said the + “Old King,” addressing the crowd generally. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang,” said his son Sam. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough,” said Sam. He stood in + no awe of his father. + </p> + <p> + “Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the + matter, Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, + we're glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' + to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Doin' nothin',” broke in Sam, a little nettled at the “Old + King's” kindly tone toward Ben. “He's blowin' round here to + beat the band 'bout his gang.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers.” + </p> + <p> + “But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben blows about.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that would be a little strong,” said the “Old + King.” “Why, it took my four boys a good day to tie up ten + acres, Ben.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm talkin' 'bout binders,” said Ben, in what could hardly be + called a respectful tone. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just + quit yer blowin' an' talk sense.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm talkin' 'bout binders,” repeated Ben stubbornly. + </p> + <p> + “And I tell you, Ben,” replied the “Old King,” + with emphasis, “your boys—and they're good boys, too—can't + tie no ten acres in a day. They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten + acres of wheat on my west fifty. If they can do it in a day they can have + it.” + </p> + <p> + “They wouldn't take it,” answered Ben regretfully. “They + can do it, fast enough.” + </p> + <p> + Then the “Old King” quite lost patience. “Now, Ben, shut + up! You're a blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the whole field against $50 + that it can't be done.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take you on that,” said Alec Murray. + </p> + <p> + “What?” The “Old King” was nonplussed for a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it.” + </p> + <p> + But the “Old King” was too much of a sport to go back upon his + offer. “It's big odds,” he said. “But I'll stick to it. + Though I want to tell you, there's nearer twelve acres than ten.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the field,” said Alec. “But I'm willing to risk + it. The winner pays the wages. How long a day?” continued Alec. + </p> + <p> + “Quit at six.” + </p> + <p> + “The best part of the day is after that.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it eight, then,” said the “Old King.” + “And we'll bring it off on Monday. We're thrashing that day, but the + more the merrier.” + </p> + <p> + “There's jest one thing,” interposed Ben, “an' that is, + the boys mustn't know about this.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said Alec. “They're dead game.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im + risk it. He's right careful of that boy.” + </p> + <p> + After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were loitering, + after their custom, in the churchyard waiting for the service to begin, it + was generally agreed that the “Old King” with his usual + shrewdness had “put his money on the winning horse.” Even Alec + Murray, though he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom friend, Rory + Ross, that he “guessed his cake was dough, though they would make a + pretty big stagger at it.” + </p> + <p> + “If Dick only had Barney's weight,” said Rory, “they + would stand a better chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But Dick tires quicker. An' he'll die before he drops.” + </p> + <p> + “But ten acres, Alec! And there's more than ten acres in that field.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in + the centre. If I can only get them goin' their best clip—I'll have + to work it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an + ambitious little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The first thing,” + continued Alec, “is to get them a good early start. I'll have a talk + with Ben.” + </p> + <p> + As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on Monday + morning when Mrs. Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at once from her + bed and called her sons. + </p> + <p> + “You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to + Morrison's to-day. Here's Ben with the horses fed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my watch.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's six.” + </p> + <p> + Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney concluded + something must be wrong and routed Dick up, and with such good purpose did + they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from the time the boys were + called they were standing in the field waiting for Ben to begin the day's + work. + </p> + <p> + After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the field. + “I'm going to shock,” he announced. “They've got men + enough up at the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this field in + shock by to-morrow afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if you hustlers + can get it down by then.” Alec was apparently in great spirits. He + brought with him into the field a breezy air of excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after + you to-day, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?” said Ben, who + thoroughly understood Alec's game. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump in an' tie a few myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you fret yourself,” replied Dick. “If you shock + all that's tied to-day you'll need to hang your shirt on the fence at + night.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You + tie quicker than him, I hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” said Dick modestly, though quite convinced + in his own mind that he could. + </p> + <p> + “Dick's a little quicker, ain't he?” said Alec, turning to + Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he's quick enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you never have a tussle?” inquired Alec, snatching up a + couple of sheaves in each arm and setting them in their places in the + shock with a quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Barney shortly. + </p> + <p> + “I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself,” he suggested + cunningly to Dick. “When a fellow isn't very strong he's got to be + careful.” This was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to do + a man's work in the field, but he was miserable unless he took first + place. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me,” he said, taking + Alec's bait. “I've worked with him all harvest and I'm alive yet.” + Unconsciously Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney + was left several sheaves behind. + </p> + <p> + “He's just foolin' with you, Dick,” jeered Alec. “He + wouldn't hurt you for the world.” + </p> + <p> + Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of + superiority now to one and again to the other, he put both boys upon their + mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a racing pace, + though neither would acknowledge that to the other. Alec kept following + them close, almost running for his sheaves, flinging a word of + encouragement now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben as he turned + the corners, and by every means possible keeping the excitement at the + highest point. But he was careful not to overdrive his men. By a previous + arrangement and without serious difficulty he had persuaded Teenie Ross, + who had come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing, to bring out a + lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour they sat in the long + grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch which Dick at least + was beginning to feel in need of. But not a minute more did Alec allow. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to catch you fellows,” he said, “if I've to + take off my shirt to do it.” + </p> + <p> + Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the grain + was heavier than Alec had counted upon, and when the noon hour had arrived + he estimated that the grain was not more than one-third down. A full hour + and a half he allowed his men for rest, cunningly drawing them off from + the crowd of threshers to a quiet place in the orchard where they could + lie down and sleep, waking them when time was up that there should be no + loss of a single precious moment. As they were going out to the field Alec + suggested that instead of coming back for supper at five, according to the + usual custom, they should have it brought to them in the field. + </p> + <p> + “It's a long way up to the house,” he explained, “and + the days are getting short.” And though the boys didn't take very + kindly to the suggestion, neither would think of opposing it. + </p> + <p> + But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers knocked + off work for the day and sauntered down to the field where the reaping was + going on, it looked as if the “Old King” were to win his bet. + </p> + <p> + “Keep out of this field!” yelled Alec, as the men drew near; + “you're interferin' with our work. Come, get out!” For the + boys had begun to take it easy and chatting with some of them. + </p> + <p> + “Get away from here, I tell you!” cried Alec. “You line + up along the fence and we'll show you how this thing should be done!” + </p> + <p> + Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the field. The + long shadows of the evening were falling across the field. The boys were + both showing weariness at every step they took. Alec was at his wit's end. + The grain was all cut, but there was still a large part of it to bind. He + determined to take the boys into his confidence. He knew all the risk + there was in this step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury to his + brother. It was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to the boys, + he told them the issue at stake. + </p> + <p> + “Boys,” he said, “I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I + don't care a dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old King' Morrison + and I'd like to see you make a record. You've done a big day's work + already, and if you want to quit I won't say a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Quit!” cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. “What + time have we left?” + </p> + <p> + “We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on then, Barney!” cried Dick. “We're good for an + hour, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Dick,” said Barney, hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Come along! I can stand it and I know you can.” And off he + set again at racing pace and making no attempt to hide it. + </p> + <p> + In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths apiece, the + two long sides and the two short ends. + </p> + <p> + “You can't do it, boys,” said Alec regretfully. “Let 'er + go.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, boys,” cried the “Old King,” who, with the + crowd, had drawn near, “you've done a big day's work. You'll hurt + yourselves. You've earned double pay and you'll get it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” cried Dick. “We'll put in the half hour at + any rate. Come on, Barney! Never mind your rake!” + </p> + <p> + His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, and + but for his pale face there was no sign of weariness about him. He flung + away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf together, caught + it up, drew, tied, and fastened it as with one single act. + </p> + <p> + “We'll show them waltz time, Barney,” he called, springing + toward the next sheaf. “One”—at the word he snatched up + and made the band, “two”—he passed the band around the + sheaf, kicking it at the same time into shape, “three”—he + drew and knotted the band, shoving the end in with his thumb. After him + went Barney. One—two—three! and a sheaf was done. One—two—three! + and so from sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen minutes to go down the + long side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and sprang to his place at + the outer side. + </p> + <p> + “Get inside!” shouted Barney, “let me take that swath!” + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” replied Dick, tying his sheaf. + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!” + At this Ben gave a yell. + </p> + <p> + “They're goin' to do it!” he shouted, stumping around in great + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Double up, Dick!” cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the + next and tying them both together. Dick followed Barney's example, but + here his brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them came + the crowd, Alec leading them, watch in hand, all yelling. + </p> + <p> + “Two minutes for that end, boys!” cried Alec, as they reached + the corner. “You're goin' to do it, my hearties! You're goin' to do + it!” They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end. + </p> + <p> + “They can't do it, Alec,” said the “Old King.” + “They'll hurt themselves. Call them off!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you all right, Dick?” cried Barney, swinging on to the + outer swath. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” panted his brother, striding in at his side. + </p> + <p> + “Come on! We'll do it, then!” replied Barney. + </p> + <p> + Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, Barney + gradually gaining by the doubling process. + </p> + <p> + “Don't wait for me,” gasped Dick, “if you can go faster!” + </p> + <p> + “One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!” cried + Alec, as they reached the last corner. “One minute and a half, and + we win!” + </p> + <p> + There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, two on + the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves + were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, Barney doubled the + first two, the second two, the third two, and putting the last three + together swung in upon Dick's swath where there were two sheaves left. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you touch it!” gasped Dick angrily. + </p> + <p> + “How's the time, Alec?” panted Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Half a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, crying, + “Out of the way there!” snatched his band, passing it around + the sheaf, tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his hands + on his knees, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's side, and + patting him on the shoulder, said, “Great man, Dick! But I was a + fool to let you!” + </p> + <p> + “That's what you were!” cried the “Old King,” + slapping Dick on the back, “but there's the greatest day's work ever + done in these parts. The wheat's yours,” he said, turning to Alec, + “but begad! I wish it was goin' to them that won it!” + </p> + <p> + “An' that's where it is going,” said Alec, “every blamed + sheaf of it, to Ben's gang.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll take what's coming to us,” said Barney shortly. + </p> + <p> + “I told yeh so,” said Ben regretfully. + </p> + <p> + “Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?” said + Alec, angry that he should be balked in his good intention to help the + boys. + </p> + <p> + “We'll take our wages,” repeated Barney in a tone that settled + the controversy. “The wheat is not ours.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it ain't mine,” said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how + great peril his $50 had been. + </p> + <p> + “Well, boys,” said the “Old King,” “it ain't + mine. We'll divide it in three.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll take our wages,” said Barney again, in sullen + determination. + </p> + <p> + “Confound the boy!” cried the “Old King.” “What'll + we do with the wheat? I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had hard luck this + year.” + </p> + <p> + “No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!” said Ben, stumping over to + Barney's side. “I stand with the boss. I take my wages.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dog-gone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's two + days' good work there. And the rest we'll give to the church. Good thing + the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!” + </p> + <p> + “But,” added the “Old King,” turning to his son + Sam, “after this you crawl into your shell when there's any blowin' + bein' done about Ben's gang.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <h3> + LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + </h3> + <p> + The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the snake fence + massed the clover, red and white. Through the rails peeped the thistle + bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the top rail the white crest + of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze this sweet summer day. In the + clover the bumblebees, the crickets, and the grasshoppers boomed, chirped, + crackled, shouting their joy to be alive in so good a place and on so good + a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, and all the bluer for the + specks of cloud that hung, still-poised like white-winged birds, white + against the blue. Last evening's rain had washed the world clean. The sky, + the air, the flowers, the clover, red and white, the kindly grass that ran + green everywhere under foot, the dusty road, all were washed clean. In the + elm bunches by the fence, in the maples and thorns, the birds, their + summer preoccupations forgotten at the bidding of this new washed day, + recalled their spring songs and poured them forth with fine careless + courage. + </p> + <p> + In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this + flower-prinked, song-filled, clean washed, grassy lane stepped Dick this + summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the well-trained + athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart makes him merry music. + A clean-looking man was Dick, harmonious with the day and with the lane + down which he stepped. Against the grey of his suit his hands, his face, + and his neck, where the negligee shirt fell away wide, revealing his + strong, full curves spreading to the shoulders, all showed ruddy brown. He + was a man good to look upon, with his springy step, his tan skin, his + clear eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a soul looked forth + clean and unafraid upon God's good world of wholesome growing things. + </p> + <p> + From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his + boyhood's love of the open sky and of all things under it. He had just + come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest in many ways + of the college course. His class had thrust him into a man's place of + leadership in that world where only manhood counts, and he had “made + good.” In the literary, in the gym, on the campus he had made and + held high place, and on the class lists, in spite of his many + distractions, he had ranked a double first. Best of all, it filled him + with warm gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had grudged him + any of his good things. What a decent lot they were! It humbled him to + think of their pride in him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse + oblige. + </p> + <p> + At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain that + had been running below his consciousness, like the minor strain in rich + music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot Barney always + made him pause to look back upon the old mill in its frame of beauty. Poor + Barney! Twice he had gone down to the exams, and twice he had failed. Of + all in the home circle only Dick could understand the full bitterness of + the cup of humiliation that his brother had put silently to his lips and + drained. To his mother, the failure brought no surprise, and she would + have been glad enough to have him give up “his notion of being a + doctor and be content with the mill.” She had no ambitions for poor + Barney, who was “a quiet lad and well-doing enough,” an + encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch of genius. + She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly understand how + deep the shame had gone into his proud, reserved heart. His father did not + talk about it, but carried him off to look at some of the mill machinery + which had gone wrong, and it was only by a gentler tone in his voice that + Barney knew that his father understood. But Dick, with his fuller + knowledge of college life, realized as none other of them did the extent + of Barney's miserable sense of defeat. + </p> + <p> + And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his anew. + The causes of his failure were not far to seek. “He had no chance!” + said Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking with gloomy eyes + upon the scene of beauty before him. Things had changed since old Doctor + Ferguson's time. The scientific basis of medicine was coming to its place + in medical study, and the old doctor's contempt for these new-fangled + notions had wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how he had gone, hot + with indignation for his brother, to the new English professor in + chemistry, whose papers were the terror of all pass men and, indeed, all + honour men who stuck too closely to the text-book. He remembered the + Englishman's drawling contempt as, after looking up Barney's name and + papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, “He knows nothing + whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest experiment, + don't you know.” Poor Barney! the ancient and elementary chemistry + of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remotest affinity to that + which Professor Fish expected. Dick was glad this morning that he had had + sense enough to hold his tongue in the professor's presence. It comforted + him to recall the generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent, the most + brilliant surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name. + </p> + <p> + “Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder!” + </p> + <p> + “Fish doesn't think so,” Dick had replied. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Fish be hanged!” the doctor had answered, with the fine + contempt of a specialist in practical work for the theorist in medicine. + “He has some idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for not + knowing. I don't say they are not necessary, but useful chiefly for + examination purposes. Send your brother down. Send him down. For if ever I + saw an embryonic surgeon, he's one! When he comes, bring him to me.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll come,” Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it + was for his sake Barney had remained grinding at home. + </p> + <p> + “And he's going this fall,” said Dick aloud, “or no + 'varsity for me.” He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from + his football comrade, young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to + Barney and himself positions in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, + where, by working overtime, there was a chance of making $100 a month and + all found. “And we'll make it go,” said Dick. “There's + $300 apiece for us, and that's more than we want. Poor old chap!” he + continued, musing aloud, “he'll get his chance at last. Besides, + we'll get him away from that girl, confound her! though I'm afraid it's no + use now.” + </p> + <p> + A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. “That girl” + was Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark, + with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother a + wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an + understanding of their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, and he + would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, + that had smitten him as he cried, “Oh, Barney! is it possible?” + Then, as Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost + apologizing, as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the + gloom a gleam of hope, had cried, “We'll get you out of it, Barney. + I'll help you this summer.” And then again the inevitableness of + what had taken place had come over him at Barney's reply: “But, + Dick, I don't want to get out of it.” At that moment Dick's world + changed. No longer was he first with his brother. Iola had taken his + place. In vain Barney, guessing the thought in his heart, had protested + with eager, almost piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as + ever. In the first acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick + word of bitter reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He + was glad now that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought + of her in the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be + quite fair to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. + “It's that confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole + get-up. She's got something diabolically fetching about her.” Then, + as if he had gone too far, he continued, still musing aloud, “She's + good enough, I guess, but not for Barney.” That was one of the + bitter things that had survived the night. She was not good enough for his + brother, his hero, his beau ideal of high manhood ever since he could + think. “But there is no one good enough for Barney,” he + continued, “except—yes—there is one—Margaret—she + is good enough—even for Barney.” As Barney among men, so + Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his life he + had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying his + prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always come + Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney in her + relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of honour, of + righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than anything else, + the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get to the bottom of + it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love there. + </p> + <p> + It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him + this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the + thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness, + and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made him + tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that feeling + of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the thought of + Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her unrelated to + Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high spirit, her + courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never for himself, + always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should have passed her + by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering of heart that + strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to Margaret for him + stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With such marvellous + swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him go “pay his + duty to the minister,” his heart responded with so great a leap of + joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those about + him, sure that they must have noticed. + </p> + <p> + And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make + acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered + what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced at his + watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She might + come for a little stroll in the woods at the back of the manse, but he + would say nothing to her to-day. He would wait and watch to read her + heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go on + his way. A gleam of white through the snake fence against the pink of the + clover caught his eye. Under the thorn tree—he knew the spot well—and + upon the grass, lay a girl. “By Jove!” he whispered, his heart + stopping, thumping, then rushing, “it is Margaret.” He would + creep up and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was + close to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, + the other flung wide in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing down + upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about her + mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she was + than he had thought! “Poor girl! she has been having a hard time! + It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!” At the + thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity + stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had ever filled + his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his brother's rights, + suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth and swept like a torrent + through his being. He lost grip of himself and, before he knew, he had + bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips. A long shivering sigh + shook her. “Barney,” she murmured, a slight smile playing + about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up into + Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat upright. + </p> + <p> + “You! Dick!” she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling + in her voice. “You—you dare to—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Margaret,” said Dick, aghast at what he had done, + “I couldn't help it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and—and I + love you so much.” + </p> + <p> + “You,” cried the girl again, as if she could find no other + word. “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I said, Margaret,” he replied, gathering his courage + together, “that I love you so much.” + </p> + <p> + “You love me?” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Last night?” she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now + grown pale, but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret,” he hurried + to say, “but only last night I found out I might love you. I never + let myself go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney—” + At the mention of his brother's name, the face that had been white with a + look almost of horror flamed quickly with red. “Last night,” + continued Dick, wondering at the change in her, “I found out, and + this morning, Margaret, the whole world is just humming with joy because I + know I may love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined a + fellow could hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, + Margaret? Do you knew what I am talking about?” Margaret's face had + grown pale and haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with + pity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick,” she said slowly, “I know. I have just been + learning.” The brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of + herself. “I know all the joy and—all the pain.” She + stopped short at the look in Dick's face. The buoyant, glad light + flickered and went out. A look of perplexity, of great fear, and then of + desolation, like that on her own face, spread over his. He knew her too + well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned over to him, still kneeling + in the grass. “Oh, Dick, dear!” she cried, taking his hand in + hers with a mother-touch and tone, “must you suffer, too? Oh, don't + say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!” Her voice + rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you say I must?” he answered in a hoarse tone. “I + love you with all my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't Dick, dear,” she pleaded, “don't say it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will,” he said, recovering his voice, “because + it's true. And I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself + love you. It was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so + for Barney. But last night”—here a quick flash of joy came + into his face at the memory—“I found out, and this morning I + could hardly help shouting it as I came along to you.” He paused, + and, leaning toward her, he took her hand. “Don't you think, + Margaret, you might perhaps some time.” The piteous entreaty in his + voice broke down the girl's proud courage. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!” she sobbed, “don't! Don't ask me!” + Her sobs came tempestuously. + </p> + <p> + He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said, + “Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand that, and—well, + I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get + hold of myself. There now—hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!” + He held her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet. + </p> + <p> + At length she drew away, saying, “I don't know why I should act like + this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard + winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it was + wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me horrid,” + she went on hurriedly. “I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you. But I + never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, + Dick, no one knows.” She sat up straight, her courage coming back. + “I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware.” + A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint + flush touched her pale cheek. “But I am glad you know. And, Dick, + can't we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?” Dick had + been looking at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his + eyes a look of misery that went to the girl's heart. + </p> + <p> + “Forget!” he cried. “Tell me how.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, “Oh, + Dick! must we go on and on like this?” She pressed her hands hard + upon her heart. “There's a sore, sore pain right here,” she + said. “Is there to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there + for two years.” She was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once + more he caught her in his strong brown hands. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. + God—yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He + can't let us go on like this!” + </p> + <p> + The words steadied her. + </p> + <p> + “I know, Dick,” she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, + “there has been no one else for all these months, and He has helped + me. He will help you, too. Come,” she continued, “let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sit down and talk,” replied Dick. He looked at his watch. + “A quarter after ten,” he said, in surprise. “Can the + whole world change in one little quarter of an hour?” he asked, + looking up at her, “it was ten when I stopped at the hill.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Dick,” she said again, “we'll talk another time, + I can't trust myself just now. I was going to your mother's.” + </p> + <p> + But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him as + if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and he + shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings. + </p> + <p> + “I can't, Margaret,” he said. “You go. Let me fight it + out.” + </p> + <p> + She knew too well where he was. “No, Dick, I will not leave you + here. Come, do.” She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms + about his neck and kissed him. “Help me, Dick,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, + and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and + again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, + passionate tones, “I love you! I love you!” For a few moments + she suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him. + Her action recalled him to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Margaret,” he cried brokenly, “I'm a great, + selfish brute. I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I + weaken again, don't think me quite a cad.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, + gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the + lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <h3> + FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + </h3> + <p> + “Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?” asked Dr. + Bulling of Iola. + </p> + <p> + They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it + was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. + Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey corner, + the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, spoke of a + pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious art without + the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room stood a piano + with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, + which she seldom used now except when intimate friends gathered for one of + the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the + mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on which the + piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the fireplace that had + determined the choice of the room. + </p> + <p> + As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden + splendour. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “And why 'of course'?” inquired the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and + his gold medal.” + </p> + <p> + “And who is that, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Boyle.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have + seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather + crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, “he + is from the country, where I met him five—yes, it is actually five—years + ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think + you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's + darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as yet”—this + with a little bow to her visitor—“but some day he will be + great. And, besides, he is very nice.” + </p> + <p> + “Of that I have no doubt,” said the doctor, “seeing he + is a friend of yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to + be there and will be glad to call for you.” The doctor could hardly + prevent a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in + her manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going + with friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” + There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at + him the more sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. + Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. + I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. + Pretty much of a saint, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into + her voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and + jolliest girl I know.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with + an air of dismissing her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes + glowing eager enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, + at sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the children in + the most wonderful way. Looked after me, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, + sure enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old + country, and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.” + </p> + <p> + “And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, + and, on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has + been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, which + is not often, and still takes care of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Most fortunate young lady she is,” murmured the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “So I am going with them,” continued Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Then I suppose nobody will see you.” The doctor's tone was + quite gloomy. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I love to see all my friends.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be the usual thing,” said the doctor, “the same + circle crowding you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you.” + </p> + <p> + “That depends on how much you—” cried Iola, throwing a + swift smile at him. + </p> + <p> + “How much I want to?” interrupted the doctor eagerly. “You + know quite well I—” + </p> + <p> + “How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak + to all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How + ever,” she continued, “one can hardly expect to see much of + the very popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, rot!” said the doctor. “I say, can't we get off a + little together? There are nice quiet nooks about the old building.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, doctor, how shocking!” But her eyes belied her voice, and + the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant + convocation day at Trinity. + </p> + <p> + The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the + students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean + and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be the + orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body + finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was + the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way of + encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had to take + part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly uproarious + applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some favourite. At no + point was the fervour greater than when Barney was called to receive his + medal. To the little group of friends at the left of the desk, consisting + of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed as if the cheering that + greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the occasion. Dr. Trent + presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties he had to contend with + in the early part of his course, of the perseverance and indomitable + courage the young man had shown, and the singular, indeed the very + remarkable, ability he had manifested in the special line of study for + which this medal was granted, the dead silence that pervaded the room was + even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. Trent's + remarks and that continued until Barney had taken his place again among + the graduating class. + </p> + <p> + Then someone called out, “What's the matter with old Carbuncle?” + eliciting the usual vociferous reply, “He's all right!” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove,” said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, “isn't + that great? And the old boy deserves it every bit!” But Margaret + made no reply. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a + spot of red in each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a + moment, and he noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, little girl,” he whispered, giving her hand a + little pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look + in her eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat. + </p> + <p> + On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and + joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the face + of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full of pride + and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had endured for + the last three years were quite worth while. + </p> + <p> + After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the + little group about Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Congratulations, Boyle,” he said, in the somewhat patronizing + manner of a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his + parchment in his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new + clothes, “that was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's + tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the + familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it + made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed to + be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself to + Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation of + him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words Dr. + Bulling took himself off. + </p> + <p> + “Brute!” said Barney as the doctor retired. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I am sure he seems very nice,” said Iola, raising her + eyebrows in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Nice!” said Barney contemptuously. “If you knew how the + men speak of him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and + he's in the swim, but he's a beast, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!” cried Iola, “for you + know he's been a great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite + devoted to him.” Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the + smile which she gave Barney, took the sting out of her words. + </p> + <p> + Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly + because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own + admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, who + finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness, carried + her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for Barney, and + on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of the afternoon + Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little + coterie of friends. + </p> + <p> + And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against Dr. + Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital staff + at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the exertions + of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into closer touch + with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also to be a kind + of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical men in the city. + For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as his assistant, + and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition of an assistantship + to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, and young + Drake also, who owed his parchment that day to Barney's merciless grinding + in surgery, and perhaps more to his steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, + who, more for his great wealth and his large social connection than for + his professional standing, had been invited, was present with Foxmore, + Smead, and others who followed him about applauding his coarse jokes and + accepting his favours. The dinner was purely informal in character, the + menu well chosen, the wines abundant, and the drinking hard enough with + some, with the result that as the dinner neared its end the men, and + especially the group about Bulling, became more and more hilarious. + Barney, who was drinking water and keeping his hand upon Drake's + wineglass, found his attention divided between his conversation with Trent + and the talk of Bulling, who, with his friends, sat across the table. As + this group became more boisterous, they absorbed to themselves the + attention of the whole company. Conscious of the prestige his wealth and + social position accorded him, and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, + Bulling became increasingly offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories + and songs became more and more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first + experience of a dinner of this kind, and it filled him with disgust and + horror. Even Trent, by no means inexperienced in these matters, was + disgusted with Bulling's tone. Following Barney's glances and aware of his + wandering attention, he was about to propose a breakup of the party when + he was arrested by a look of rigid and eager attention upon the face of + his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Disgusting brute!” said Trent, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. He + had his glass in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Here's to the Lane!” he was saying, “the sweetest + little Lane in all the world!” + </p> + <p> + “She's divine!” replied Foxmore. “And what a voice! + She'll make Canada famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?” + </p> + <p> + “In church,” replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious + delight of his followers. “That's right,” he continued, + “heard her sing, set things in motion, and now she's the leading + voice in the cathedral. Introduced her to a few people, and there she is, + the finest thing in her line in the city! Yes, and some day on the + continent! A dear, sweet little lane it is,” he continued in a tone + of affectionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his teeth in furious + rage. + </p> + <p> + “That she is,” said Smead enthusiastically, “and + thoroughly straight, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Foxmore, “there's no lane but has a turning. + And trust Bulling,” he added coarsely, “for finding it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Bulling, with a knowing smile, “this little + Lane is straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's + lines run in curves, you know.” And again his wit provoked + applauding laughter. But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice + was heard, clear and cutting. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!” The words were plainly + audible to every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company. + </p> + <p> + “What?” said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not + heard aright. + </p> + <p> + “I say you are a cowardly liar!” + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young + lady. I say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” said Trent. “Beastly cad!” + </p> + <p> + Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. “You impertinent young cub! What do + you mean?” + </p> + <p> + For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and flung + glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man was on + his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!” + </p> + <p> + “No hurry about this, boys,” said Bulling quietly; “I'll + make him eat his words before he's half an hour older.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. “Let me at him. He's a + great knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything + about it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up.” Dick had been + 'varsity champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, + stern words. + </p> + <p> + “Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere + to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it + may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease the + doctor and to patch up the peace. + </p> + <p> + “If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off,” were the + doctor's terms. + </p> + <p> + “If he says he lied,” was Barney's condition. + </p> + <p> + “Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bulling; “it + will not take more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke.” + </p> + <p> + The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive a + heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing of the + game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master of it. + Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, + avoiding and sending in killing blows, till at length bloody, dazed, + panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind and + strength. Opposite him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his adversary. + </p> + <p> + “This is easy, boys,” he smiled. “Now, you young + whipper-snapper,” he continued, addressing Barney, “perhaps + you've had enough. Let me tell you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, + by the Eternal, I'll send you to sleep!” As he spoke he closed his + teeth with a savage snap. + </p> + <p> + “Will you say you're a liar?” said Barney, facing his opponent + again, and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, quit it!” said the doctor contemptuously, “Come + along, you fool, if you must have it!” + </p> + <p> + Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a heavy + left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, quickly following + with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the jaw of his + dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the floor, and lay + quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a dozen men pulled him + off. + </p> + <p> + “Let him come,” said Bulling, with a laugh, “I've a very + fine assortment of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable terms.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake + were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and hands. + </p> + <p> + “Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, + someone,” said Dr. Trent. “A more cowardly brute I've never + seen. You're a disgrace to the profession, Bulling.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent,” said + Bulling cynically. + </p> + <p> + But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs of + reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could sit up. Meanwhile + Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Boyle,” said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as + Barney sat up, “a little more brandy and water.” + </p> + <p> + For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly + about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, “Where is + he? He's not gone?” He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. + Treat's hands and drank it off. “Get me another,” he said. + “Is he gone?” he repeated, making an effort to rise. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Boyle, he's gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till another day, Barney,” entreated Dick. “Never + mind to-night.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud + laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked to the + table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he + stood stretching his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's better,” he said, and started toward the lavatory, + but Dick clung to him. + </p> + <p> + “Barney, listen to me,” he entreated, his voice coming in + broken sobs. “He'll kill you. Let me take your place.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick, keep out of it,” said Barney. “Don't worry. He'll + hurt me no more, but he'll say it before I'm done.” And, throwing + off the restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling + was arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he turned + around. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, Boyle,” he began, “but you brought it on + yourself, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Barney walked straight up to him. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't hear you say you are a liar.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” cried Bulling, “haven't you got enough. Be + thankful you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?” + </p> + <p> + Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel. + </p> + <p> + “I say, boys,” said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, “keep + this fool off. I don't want to kill him.” + </p> + <p> + Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Boyle, quit it,” said Foxmore. “There's no use, + you see.” He laid his hand on Barney's arm. + </p> + <p> + Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, but + Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away. + </p> + <p> + “Get back!” cried Barney, springing away from the men + approaching him. As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one + of its legs, swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble + floor, and, putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had + the leg free in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You men stand back,” he said in a low voice, “and don't + any of you interfere.” + </p> + <p> + Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to + their places, leaving a wide space about him. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, + “the man is mad! Call a policeman, some of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Drake, lock that door and bring me the key,” said Barney. + </p> + <p> + As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling, the + latter's pallor increased. “I take you men to witness,” he + said, appealing to the company, “if murder is done I'm not + responsible. I'm defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to kill.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dr. Bulling,” said Barney, handing his club to Drake, + “you won't strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no + more. The boxing exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no + more.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and terrible. + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you your chance once again,” he said. “Will + you say you are a cowardly liar?” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces, + hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, with an evident + effort at bluster, “Not by a —— sight! Come on! Take + your medicine!” But the lesson of the last half hour had not been + lost on Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his man, + feinting to draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his + antagonist in such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his + wind began to fail him, and it soon became evident that he could not stand + the pace for very long. + </p> + <p> + “You've got him!” cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. + “Keep it up, Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five + minutes more!” + </p> + <p> + “Quite evident,” echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the + change in the situation. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to + appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath + came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only hope + lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next minute + or accept defeat. Nature was now taking revenge upon him for his long + outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised and + battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly, without + any sign of the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading his + opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had arrived, + and waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing for Bulling + to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning his fast + failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back into the + angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and all would be over. + </p> + <p> + “Look out, Barney!” yelled Dick. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and leaped + at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one long arm forward + and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. “Ha!” + he cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. + “Now! Now! Now!” As he uttered each word between his clenched + teeth he shook the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain + his victim struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now + clutching and clawing at those terrible gripping fingers. His face grew + purple; his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands + fell to his side. “Keep your hands so,” hissed Barney, + loosening his grip to give him air. “Ha! would you? Don't you move!” + gripping him hard again. “There!” loosening once more, “now, + are you a liar? Speak quick!” The blue lips made an attempt at the + affirmation of which the head made the sign. “Say it again. Are you + a liar?” Once more the head nodded and the lips attempted to speak. + “Yes,” said Barney, still through his clenched teeth, “you + are a cowardly liar!” The words came forth with terrible + deliberation. “I could kill you with my hands as you stand. But I + won't, you cur! I'll just do this.” As he spoke he once more + tightened his grip upon the throat and swung his open hand on the livid + cheek. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake, Boyle,” cried Foxmore, “let up! That's + enough!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's enough,” said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious + man on the floor, “it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I + think, when he uttered that lie,” he said in a voice smooth, almost + sweet, but that chilled the hearts of the hearers, “you laughed. You + were a beastly cad, weren't you? Speak!” + </p> + <p> + “What? I—I—” gasped Foxmore, backing into the + corner. + </p> + <p> + “Quick, quick!” cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on + his toes, “say it quick!” His fingers were working + convulsively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, I was!” cried Foxmore, backing further away behind + the others. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, “you would + all of you laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!” + He walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner + in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. “You're not fit + to live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is safe from you!” + His voice rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of + himself. His ghastly face, bloody and horribly disfigured, made an + appalling setting for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the crowd he + walked, gnashing and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. + The wild fury of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast + with a wild beast's lust of blood. Further and further back cowered the + group without a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they. + </p> + <p> + “Barney,” said Dick quietly, “come home.” He + stopped short, with a mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few + moments he stood silent looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he + let them rest upon the doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, + without a word, turned and slowly passed out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Gad!” said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, “if + the devil looks like that I never want to see him.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <h3> + IOLA'S CHOICE + </h3> + <p> + Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes + shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm light + proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her table. She + sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while she gazed + dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that overshadowed her + window. She would not move lest the dream should break and vanish. As she + lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving leaves and waving + boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How far away seemed the + golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her first recollection of + sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep impression upon her heart, + was when the men carried out her father in a black box and when, leaving + the big house with the wide pillared veranda, she was taken to the chilly + North. How terribly vivid was the memory of her miserable girlhood, + poverty pressed and loveless, her soul beating like a caged bird against + the bars of the cold and rigid discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. + Then came the first glad freedom from dependence when first she undertook + to earn her own bread as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, + freedom and love and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With + the memory of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly + real, one face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him + brought a warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every + feature of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first + she saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the + barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding + about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the + barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while she + sang. At that point it was that life for her began. + </p> + <p> + A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music + professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous + delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria. She + could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new + powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his + trembling, broken voice, “My dear young lady, the world will listen + to you some day!” That was the beginning of her great ambition. That + day she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen. + Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with + self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical pupils, + for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings and failings in + the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to heart-break with the + patronage of the rich and flattering friends—how she loathed it—of + whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most objectionable. And + then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes for a place in the + great Philharmonic which would at once insure not only her standing in the + city, but a New York engagement as well. And now the moment of triumph had + arrived. The letter she held in her hand was proof of it. She glanced once + more at the written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here and there, + “We have succeeded at last—the Duff Charringtons have + surrendered—you only want a chance—here it is—you can do + the part well.” She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she could do the + part. “And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from accepting Mrs. + Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a beautiful yacht + and well found, and I am confident the great lady will be gracious—bring + your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, I foresee two golden + days in store for me.” She allowed a smile slightly sarcastic to + curl her lips. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. + Saturday? That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it + made another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent + in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The utter + difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the other days + of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the sense of + sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths in the Manse + like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since her two years + spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the sense of + obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the week. No, + she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend its hours + quietly enough upon the yacht. + </p> + <p> + She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address + written in bold characters. “This is the Duff Charrington + invitation, I suppose,” she said, opening the letter. “Well, + she does it nicely, at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, + somewhat against her inclination.” + </p> + <p> + Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down the + coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing near to + listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, Nilsson, + Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their regal courts + thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country seats, their + luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only remained for + her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must be her daily lot. + Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly well, during these + past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself the things her + luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear with and smile at + those she detested. All these she would endure a little longer. The days + were coming when she would have her desire and do her will. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at the other letters upon the table. “Barney,” she + cried, seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. “Barney, + poor old boy!” A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the + letter. Where had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon + which she had been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its + splendid triumphs, Barney had not appeared. “Of course, he'll be + there,” she murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what + capacity she could not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere + shadowy appendages to their courts. Others there were who found their + husbands most useful as financial agents, business managers, or upper + servants. Iola smiled a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of + these discreetly shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. + Would he be her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon + her cheek. Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years + she must be free to study, and—well, it was better to be free till + she had made her name and her place in the world. Then when she had + settled down Barney would come to her. + </p> + <p> + But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great + love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He + was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she + had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away from + his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so + incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had + her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a + means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some + finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks + and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public. Her + reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her feet. + Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come what + might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while she was + provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of + that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor break. No, + Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient + husband. + </p> + <p> + What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to + discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no. + Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall. + During these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her + snatches of his time, she had come to feel with increasing strength that + her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her + successes, she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, + brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her art had brought her + he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued to be + the standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, his + poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions, and his + obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine sense of + honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of reverence to + the love she bore him. But more than all, it was to Barney her heart + turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its depth and + strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could not exhaust + that deep well. But the question returned, where would Barney be while she + was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along her triumphal way? + “Oh, he will wait—we will wait,” she corrected, + shrinking from the heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years + she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that + nothing should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long cherished + and for which she had so greatly endured. + </p> + <p> + She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an + approaching delight. + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you + last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two, because + my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night before + last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie and in the + process got rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The doctor and + his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at least in my + hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean life. He should + not be allowed to appear with decent people. I have written to forbid him + ever approaching you in public. You will know how to treat him if he + attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business to you. I hate to + make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one but me. Would I + could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of these people, I + mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to your success. Your + great voice needs not their patronage; if so, failure would be better. + When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. Good-bye. It is hard + not to see you. Ever yours, + </p> + <p> + “Barney.” + </p> + <p> + Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her castle + in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand. She read + the note hurriedly again. + </p> + <p> + “He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling.” She recalled a + sentence in the doctor's letter. “Let no one or nothing keep you + from accepting this invitation.” “He's afraid Barney will keep + me back. Nonsense! How stupid of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He + doesn't understand these things. There has been a horrid row of some kind + and now he asks me to cut Dr. Bulling!” She glanced at Barney's + letter. “Well, he doesn't ask me, but it's all the same—'you + will know how to treat him.' He's too proud to ask me, but he expects me + to. It would be sheer madness! Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn + Redd be delighted! It is preposterous! I must go! I shall go!” + </p> + <p> + Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of passion. + With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry. It was so + much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was no avoiding. + She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so heart-shaking that + after it had passed she was thankful she had been alone. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with me?” she asked herself. She did not + know that the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a + part of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of + Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. “What shall I + do?” she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. “Margaret + will tell me. No, she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think + it was wicked to go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's + rigid notions about things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will understand. + He has seen more of this life and—oh, he's not so terribly + hidebound. And I'll get Dick to see Barney.” She would not + acknowledge that she was grateful that Barney could not come to see her, + but she could write him a note and she could send Dick to him, and in the + meantime she would accept the invitation. “I will accept at once. I + wish I had before I read Barney's note. I really had accepted in my mind, + and, besides, the arrangements were all made. I'll write the letters now.” + She hastened to burn her bridges behind her so that retreat might be + impossible. “There,” she cried, as she sealed, addressed, and + stamped the letters, “I wish they were in the box. I'm awfully + afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let this chance go! I + have worked too long and too hard! Barney should not ask it!” A wave + of self-pity swept over her, bringing her temporary comfort. Surely Barney + would not cause her pain, would not force her to give up her great + opportunity. She sought to prolong this mood. She pictured herself a + forlorn maiden in distress whom it was Barney's duty and privilege to + rescue. “I'll just go and post these now,” she said. Hastily + she put on her hat and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the passing + of her self-pity might leave her to face again the thought of Barney's + inevitable and immovable opposition. + </p> + <p> + “There, that's done,” she said to herself, as the lid of the + post box clicked upon her letters. “Oh, I wonder—I wish I + hadn't!” What she had feared had come to pass. She had committed + herself, and now her self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face + with the inevitable results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's + dark, rugged face with the deep-seeing eyes. “He always makes you + feel in the wrong,” she said impatiently. “You can never think + what to say. He always seems right, and,” she added honestly, + “he is right generally. Never mind, Dick will help me.” She + shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. Foxmore. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, good-morning,” smiled the doctor, showing a double row of + white teeth under his waxed mustache. “And how does the fair Miss + Lane find herself this fine morning?” + </p> + <p> + It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which + was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. + Bulling's friends, one of his toadies—and he had a number of them—who + represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort to + repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. Foxmore was + greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his manner was + irresistible with “the sex.” Bulling might hold over him, by + reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field + without handicap and see who would win out! + </p> + <p> + “I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling + upon you this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed. Well—ah—come in.” Iola was fighting + fiercely her loathing of him. It was against this man and his friends that + Barney had defended her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the + silly chatter of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had + fairly got himself seated she was coolly master of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Just ran in to give you the great news.” + </p> + <p> + “To wit?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got + it.” + </p> + <p> + Iola looked blank. + </p> + <p> + “Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?” + Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words. + </p> + <p> + “Surrendered? Just what, exactly?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, + the Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd + girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or + a pugilistic encounter.” + </p> + <p> + “A horse race!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha, ha! A horse race + isn't in it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the + soloists were chosen for any other reason than that of merit.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these + things go.” Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The + lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both + baffling and exasperating. “Oh, come, Miss Lane,” he + continued, making a desperate effort to recover his patronizing tone, + “you know just what we all think of your ability.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it?” Iola's tone was calmly curious. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I think—well—I know you can do the work infinitely + better than Evelyn Redd.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard + me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm + confident it will suit the part.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so much,” said Iola sweetly; “I am so sorry + that Dr. Bulling should have given so much time, and he is such a busy + man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's nothing,” waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his + self-esteem, “we enjoyed it.” + </p> + <p> + “How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way,” replied the + doctor, falling into his best professional tone. + </p> + <p> + “And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that, + too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it is to have + one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the trouble + of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at all.” + Iola's face and smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr. Foxmore shot a + suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?” + </p> + <p> + “I am really a little uncertain at present,” replied Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut + up, not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it off.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” said the doctor, plunging wildly, “I + wouldn't put it that way. But the whole question of the Philharmonic was + involved, and this invitation was a flag of truce, as it were.” + </p> + <p> + “Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I + cannot pretend to follow the workings of your mind. But seeing that this + invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort on the part of + Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall decline it.” In + spite of all she could do, Iola could not keep out of her voice a slightly + haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast deserting him. + “And as to the Philharmonic solos,” continued Iola, “if + the directors see fit to make me an offer of the part I shall consider it.” + </p> + <p> + “Consider it!” gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl + with her absurd pretensions were given to understand the magnitude of the + favour that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer upon her. He + became brutal. “Well, all I say is that if you know when you are + well off, you'll take this chance.” + </p> + <p> + Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. Foxmore had + not thought her so tall. Her face was a shade paler than usual, her eyes a + little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as ever, and with just a + little ring as of steel in it she inquired, “Did you come here this + morning to make this threat, Dr. Foxmore?” + </p> + <p> + “I came,” he said bluntly, “to let you know your good + fortune and to warn you not to allow any of your friends to persuade you + against your own best interests.” + </p> + <p> + “My friends?” Iola threw her head slightly backward and her + tone became frankly haughty. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know your friends, and especially—I may as well be + plain—that young medical student, Boyle, don't like Dr. Bulling, and + might persuade you against this yacht trip.” + </p> + <p> + Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood without + speaking for a few moments till she was sure her voice was steady. + </p> + <p> + “My FRIENDS would never presume to interfere with my choosing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to + interfere once too often for his own good. But he'll probably be more + careful in future.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. He + would do what he thought right.” + </p> + <p> + “He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with + Dr. Bulling again.” The doctor's tone was insolently sarcastic. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bulling?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling was forced to + chastise him.” + </p> + <p> + “Chastise! Mr. Boyle!” cried Iola, her anger throwing her off + her guard. “That is quite impossible, Dr. Foxmore! That could not + happen!” + </p> + <p> + “But I am telling you it did! I was present and saw it. It was this + way—” + </p> + <p> + Iola put up her hand imperiously. “Dr. Foxmore,” she said, + recovering her self-command, “there is no need of words. I tell you + it is quite impossible! It is quite impossible!” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the remaining shreds + of decency in speech. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to call me a liar?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me as well?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the calm, smiling face. + </p> + <p> + “I was a fool to come!” he blurted. + </p> + <p> + “I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of + returning wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further words + strode from the room. + </p> + <p> + Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the open door. + “Oh!” she breathed, her hands fiercely clenched, “if I + were a man what a joy it would be just now!” She shut the door and + sat down to think. “I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at + once. He'll tell me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!” For the + first time she saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If she sang + in the Philharmonic it would be by virtue of his good offices and by the + gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for + the part and that it was immeasurably better than Evelyn Redd's counted + not at all. How mean she felt! And yet she must go on with it. She would + not allow anything to stand in the way of her success. This was the first + firm stepping-stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she would + be independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. She would go on this + yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. Bulling, nor would + she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. It looked terribly + like disloyalty to him to associate herself on terms of friendship with + the man who had beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated herself! But she + could not give up her chance. She would explain to Barney how helpless she + was and she would send Dick to him. He would listen to Dick. + </p> + <p> + Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads making + choice of a path that was to lead her far from the faith, the ideals, the + friends she now held most dear. Through all her years she had been + preparing herself for this hour of choice. With her, to desire greatly was + to bend her energies to attain. She would deeply wound the man who loved + her better than his own life; but the moment of choice found her helpless + in the grip of her ambition. And so her choice was made. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <h3> + HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + </h3> + <p> + Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable as when + seen at a distance. The huge bulk of her, the pronouncedly masculine dress + and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its dark mustache line on + the upper lip, all of which at a distance were calculated to overawe if + not to strike terror to the heart of the beholder, were very considerably + softened by the shrewd, kindly twinkle of the keen grey eyes which a + nearer view revealed. Her welcome of Iola was bluff and hearty, but she + was much too busy ordering her forces and disposing of her impedimenta, + for she was her own commodore, to pay particular attention in the meantime + to her guests. The wharf at which the Petrel was tied was crowded this + Saturday afternoon with various parties of excursionists making for the + steamers, ferries, yachts, and other craft that lay along the water front. + Already the Petrel had hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, + was straining upon her shore lines awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola + stood idly gazing at the shifting scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded + on his mission to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with + his usual smiling assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she + noticed him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of the wharf. + Iola's eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a man pushing his + way through the crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evidently to make + inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered oath, Bulling sprang to the aft + line. + </p> + <p> + “Let go that line, Murdoff!” he shouted to the man at the bow. + “Look lively, there!” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making it + imperative that Murdoff should execute his command in the liveliest + manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a space of blue water + between herself and the dock. She was not a moment too soon, for Barney, + having received his direction, was coming at a run, scattering the crowd + to right and left. As he arrived at the dock edge he caught sight of Iola + and Dr. Bulling. He took a step backwards and made as if to attempt the + spring. Iola's cry, “Don't, Barney!” arrested Mrs. Duff + Charrington's attention. + </p> + <p> + “What's up?” she shouted. “How's this? We're off! + Bulling, what the deuce—who gave orders?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have said + herself, completely flabbergasted. At a single glance she took in the + white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white. + </p> + <p> + “What's up?” she cried again. “Have you seen a ghost, + Miss Lane? You, too, Bulling?” She glanced back at the clock. + “There's someone left behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, + it's our medallist, isn't it? Do you know him, Bulling? Shall we go back + for him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! For Heaven's sake, no! He's a madman, quite!” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, Dr. Bulling,” said Iola, her voice ringing clear + and firm in contrast with Bulling's agitated tone, “he is a friend + of mine, a very dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane.” As she + spoke she waved her hand to Barney, but there was no answering sign. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, is he?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington. “Then + doubtless very sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane? Shall we go back for + him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he doesn't want me,” said Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Charrington,” said Dr. Bulling, “he has a grudge + against me because of a fancied insult.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, “I understand. What do + you say, Miss Lane? We can easily go back.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola + hurriedly; “he is gone.” + </p> + <p> + “As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. I + declare he looks as if he needed bracing up. I shall take the wheel.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling + disappeared down the companionway, “that was Mr. Boyle, my friend, + and I want you to think him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't + like Dr. Bulling. He doesn't trust him.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, my dear,” said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, “don't + trouble yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! + these men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear + creatures. But they are just like ourselves, with a little more conceit + and considerably less wit. And they are not really worth all the trouble + we take for them. I must get to know your medallist, my dear. That was a + strong face and an honest face. I have heard John rave about him. John is + my young son, first year in medicine. His judgment, I confess, is not + altogether reliable—worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat + as to that young man's doings when they were initiating him. But I have no + doubt that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite mad about you, + and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my arms round + you as soon as possible.” + </p> + <p> + As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff + Charrington, who, with all her sporty manners and masculine ways, was an + honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad now I came,” said Iola gratefully; “I was + afraid you weren't—” She paused abruptly in confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was + what Dr. Bulling—” Again Iola hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Don't bother telling me,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, + observing her confusion. “No doubt Bulling gave you to understand + that he worked me to invite you. Confess now.” There was a shrewd + twinkle in her keen grey eye. “Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, + with large possibilities of self-appreciation. But he had nothing to do + with this invitation, though he flatters himself he had. He's not without + ability, but he can't teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I'll tell you + why you are here. I pride myself upon having an eye for a winner, and I + pick you as one, and that's why you are to sing in the Philharmonic. + Evelyn Redd has a pretty voice. She is a niece of a very dear friend, and + for a time I thought she might do. But she has no soul, no passion, and + music, like a man, must have passion. Music without passion is a crime + against art. So I just told Duff, he's chairman, you know, of the Board of + Directors, that she was impossible and that we must have you. I have heard + you sing, my dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat + and eye. You have them all. You have the voice and the temperament and the + passion. You'll be great some day, much greater than I, and, with the hope + of sharing your glory, I have decided to put my money on you.” + </p> + <p> + Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, but Mrs. + Duff Charrington waved them aside. + </p> + <p> + “Purely selfish,” she said, “purely selfish, my dear. + Now don't let Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner, too. He has + force. He'll be a power in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind + of brute, of course, but he'll succeed, for he has wealth and social + prestige, neither to be sniffed at, my child. But, especially, he has + driving power. But I'll have my eye on him this trip, so enjoy your + outing.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of the + finesse of diplomacy in the manipulation of her company. Her method was + straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent attempts of Dr. + Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure Iola for a + tete-a-tete, she called out across the deck in the ears of the whole + company, “See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying to monopolise + our star. We're out for a good time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane + is not your property. She belongs to us all.” Thenceforth Dr. + Bulling, with what grace he could summon, had to content himself with just + so much of Iola's company as his hostess decided he should have. + </p> + <p> + It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a series of + sensations altogether new and delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like a + great white-winged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, the humming + breeze, the swift rush through the parting waves, the sense of buoyant + life with which the yacht seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. She + abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and became the life and soul of + the whole party. And were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two days' + outing would have been for Iola among the happiest experiences of her + life. But Barney's last look across the widening strip of water pursued + her and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more terrible + than rage. Iola shuddered as she recalled it. She read in it the despair + of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, and as the end of her trip + drew near her dread increased. + </p> + <p> + Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in the + girl during the short voyage, fail to observe her uneasiness and to guess + the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at the dock, Iola + detected Barney. + </p> + <p> + “There he is,” she cried under her breath. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, + “it is not possible that you are afraid, and of a man! I would give + something to have that feeling. It is many years since a man could inspire + me with any feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. They are really + silly creatures and most helpless. Let me manage him. Introduce him to me + and leave him alone.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more than + justified. Through the crowd and straight for Iola came Barney, his face + haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever manoeuvre Mrs. Duff + Charrington swung her massive form fair in his path and, turning suddenly, + faced him squarely. Iola seized the moment to present him. Barney made as + if to brush her aside, but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not of the kind to be + lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less by a young man of Barney's + inexperience. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, young man,” she exclaimed, “I think I have seen you + before.” The strong grip of her hand and the loud tone of her voice + at once arrested his progress and commanded his attention. “I saw + you get your medal the other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave + about you—John Charrington, you know, medical student, first year. + He is something of a fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of course, won't + have noticed him.” + </p> + <p> + Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen grey + eyes compelling his attention, then, with an effort, he collected his + wits. + </p> + <p> + “Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. + Don't see much of him.” + </p> + <p> + “No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The + dissecting-room wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's straight-going, + however, but he can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes + considerably, the Lord pity his patients.” She became aware of a + sudden hardening in Barney's face and a quick flash in his eye. Without + turning her head she knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching Iola from the + other side. She put her hand on Barney's arm. “Mr. Boyle, please + take Miss Lane to my carriage there? Bulling,” she said, turning + sharply upon the doctor, “will you help Daisy to collect my stuff? I + am sure things will be left on the yacht. There are always some things + left. Servants are so stupid.” There was that in her voice that made + Bulling stand sharply at attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, + he was leading Iola and Mrs. Duff Charrington to the waiting carriage. + </p> + <p> + “So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we + would have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle,” said Mrs. Duff + Charrington as he closed the carriage door. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in + with some of your party.” There was war in Barney's tone. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens, young man!” cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no + way disturbed, “you don't expect to make the world fit in with you + or you with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. But + you will be glad to know that Miss Lane has made us all have a very happy + little holiday.” + </p> + <p> + “Of that I am sure,” cried Barney gravely. + </p> + <p> + “And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good time.” + </p> + <p> + “It is for that some of us have lived.” Barney's deep voice, + thrilling with sad and tender feeling, brought the quick tears to Iola's + eyes. To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even Mrs. Duff + Charrington was touched. She leaned over the carriage door toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane home to dinner. Come with us.” + </p> + <p> + Barney felt the kindly tone. “Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it would + give none of us pleasure, and I have much to do. I am leaving to-morrow + for Baltimore.” + </p> + <p> + Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced at her + white face. + </p> + <p> + “Young man,” she said sternly, leaning out toward him and + looking Barney in the eyes, “don't be a fool. The man that would, + from pique, willingly hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Charrington,” replied Barney in a steady voice, “I + have just come from an operation by which a little girl, an only child, + has lost her arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, but + from love. It is because it is best, that I go to-morrow. Good-bye.” + Then turning to Iola he said, “I shall see you to-night.” He + lifted his hat and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Drive home, Smith,” said Mrs. Charrington sharply; “the + others will find their way.” + </p> + <p> + “Take me home,” whispered Iola, with dry lips. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love him?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, taking the + girl's hand in hers. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes. I never knew how much.” + </p> + <p> + “Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far and + he is only a man.” Mrs. Duff Charrington's tone did not indicate a + high opinion of the masculine section of humanity. “You'll just come + with me for dinner and then I shall send you home. Thank God, we can still + eat.” + </p> + <p> + For some minutes they drove along in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her + thought, “that's a man for you—thinks the whole world moves + round the axis of his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still,” + she mused, “a man isn't everything, although once I—but never + mind, there is always a way of bringing them to time.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola; “nothing + can ever change him.” + </p> + <p> + “Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the less + it is sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I think not,” said Iola softly. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for + words. If ever you wish to come to me I shall be ready. Now let us dismiss + the thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder digestion, I + have found, and nothing is quite worth that.” + </p> + <p> + With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during the + drive and throughout the dinner hour and, indeed, until the moment of her + departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her anxious thoughts, but + with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she succeeded in keeping them deep + in her heart under guard. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night she whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle anything. Give time a + chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old party.” + </p> + <p> + And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon the + advice which suited so thoroughly her own habit of mind. That Barney had + made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She would set herself to + gain time, and yet she was fearful of the issue of the interview before + her. The fear and anxiety which she had been holding down for the last two + hours came over her in floods. As she thought of Barney's last words she + found herself searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which to + brace her strength. If he had only been angry! But that sad, tender + solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, she + knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her. + </p> + <p> + A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not the + big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before she + reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As + she entered he arose and stood silent. + </p> + <p> + “Barney!” she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney!” she cried again, her voice quivering, “won't + you tell me to come?” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said, holding out his arms. + </p> + <p> + With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about his + neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her fast, gently + caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew + quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness and + put her away from him. + </p> + <p> + “Go and take off your wet things first,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Say you forgive me, Barney,” she whispered, putting her arms + again about his neck. + </p> + <p> + “That's not the word,” he replied sadly; “there's + nothing to forgive. Go, now!” + </p> + <p> + She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she + could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold him, and, + what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as she + knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had upon + her and she dreaded lest that influence should become dominant in this + hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets, and + according to that reading the issue would be. + </p> + <p> + “I will keep him! I will keep him!” she whispered to herself + as she tore off her wet clothing. “What shall I put on?” She + could afford to lose no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose + her simplest gown, a soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and + made so as to show the superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving her + arms bare to the elbow and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, + full curves where they flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook + down her hair and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it as the wind + and rain had tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her + face. One glance she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more + lovely. The dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her + cheeks, the lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of + the night-black masses of her hair—this, and that indescribable but + all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, God help me!” she cried, clasping her hands high above + her head, and went forth. + </p> + <p> + These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain the + mastery over the surging passion that was sweeping like a tempest through + his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; but as his eyes fell + upon her standing in the soft rose-shaded light of the room, her attitude + of mute appeal, the rare, rich loveliness of her face and form again swept + away all the barriers of his control. She took one step toward him. With a + swift movement he covered his face with his hands and sank to his chair. + </p> + <p> + “O God! O God! O God!” he groaned. “And must I lose her!” + </p> + <p> + “Why lose me, Barney?” she said, gliding swiftly to him and + dropping to her knees beside him. “Why lose me?” she repeated, + taking his head to her heaving bosom. + </p> + <p> + The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. Not + for himself must he think now, but for her. The touch of self makes weak, + the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his life in that + hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her knees, set her + in a chair, and went back to his place. + </p> + <p> + “Barney, let me come to you,” she pleaded. “I'm sorry I + went—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, his voice quiet and steady, “you must + stay there. You must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Barney,” she cried again, “let me explain.” + </p> + <p> + “Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people + are nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all + that you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. + But that is all past now.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Barney?” she asked in a voice awed by the sadness + and despair in the even, quiet tone. + </p> + <p> + “It is this,” he replied; “we have come to the end. I + must not hold you any more. For two years I have known. I had not the + courage to face it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last + two days.” + </p> + <p> + “Courage, Barney?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what a + man must do. And I must think for you. Our lives are already far apart and + I must not keep you longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney!” cried Iola, her voice breaking, “let me + come to you! How can I listen to you saying such terrible things without + your arms about me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!” + </p> + <p> + The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince as from + a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if estimating his strength. Dare he trust + himself? It would make the task infinitely harder to have her near him, to + feel the touch of her hands, the pressure of her body. But he would save + her pain. He would help her through this hour of agony. How great it was + he could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat down beside her, and + took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, she let herself sink + down, with muscles relaxed and eyes closed. + </p> + <p> + “Now go on, dear,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl! Poor girl!” said Barney, “we have made a + great mistake, you and I. I was not made for you nor you for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, darling. Do I love you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered softly. + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart and soul?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear,” she answered again. + </p> + <p> + “Better than my own life?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney. Oh, yes,” she replied with a little sob in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Now we will speak simple truth to each other,” said Barney in + a tone solemn as if in prayer, “the truth as in God's sight.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. “Oh, Barney!” she cried piteously, “must + I say all the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “We must, darling. You promise?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h! Yes, I promise.” She flung her arms upward about his + neck. “I know what you will ask.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, darling,” he said again, taking down her arms, + “this is what I would say. You have marked out your life. You will + follow your great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you feel you + must go. You love me and you would be my wife, make my home, mother my + children if God should send them to us; but both these things you cannot + do, and meantime you have chosen your great career. Is not this true?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't give you up, Barney!” she moaned. + </p> + <p> + To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney should give + up his life's work to accompany her in the path she had marked. Equally to + both this would have seemed unworthy of him. + </p> + <p> + “Is not this true, Iola?” Barney's voice, in spite of him, + grew a little stern. And though she knew it was at the cost of life she + could not deny it. + </p> + <p> + “God gave me the voice, Barney,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your + great art. So it is better that there should be no bond between us.” + He paused a moment as if to gather his strength together for a supreme + effort. “Iola, when you were a girl I bound you to me. Now you are a + woman, I set you free. I love you, but you are not mine. You are your own.” + </p> + <p> + Convulsively she clung to him moaning, “No, no, Barney!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the only way.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not to-night, Barney!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an + appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your life will + be full again of other people and other things.” He hurried his + words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind + from her present pain. “Your Philharmonic will bring you fame. That + means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great + world.” How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had + followed the path she herself had outlined for her feet! He paused, as if + to take breath, then hurried on again as through a task. “And we + will all be proud of you and rejoice in your success and in your—your—your—happiness.” + The voice that had gone so bravely and so relentlessly through the + terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, but only for an instant. + He must think of her. “Dick will be here,” he went on, “and + Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me, it is the best, + Iola, and you will say it some day.” + </p> + <p> + Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, “No, Barney, you + are not helping me to my best.” + </p> + <p> + In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no + answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage. + </p> + <p> + “And who,” she cried, “will help me up and take care of + me?” + </p> + <p> + Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her + against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon + beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire + to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could he + desert her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way through the + world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his renunciation + that had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her danger. Not his + loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything. All the great + love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight behind this + desire to protect her and to hold her safe. + </p> + <p> + “Could you, Iola,” he cried hoarsely, “don't you think + you could let me care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right + to guard you? I can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?” + </p> + <p> + Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he + poured forth his soul's desire for her. To work for her, to suffer for + her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her only + for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of his mighty passion, he + poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an inexplicable + psychic law the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The sight of his + weakness brought her strength. For one fleeting moment she allowed her + mind to rest upon the picture his words made of a home, made rich with the + love of a strong man, and sweet with the music of children's voices, where + she would be safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But only + for a moment. Swifter than the play of light there flashed before her + another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, eager, + rapt, listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, swaying, + compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed muscles tone up into + firmness. The force of her ambition was being transmitted along those + subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and mind and body into one complex + whole, into the very sinews and muscles of her frame. She had hold of + herself again. She would set herself to gain time. + </p> + <p> + “Let us wait, Barney,” she said, “let us take time.” + </p> + <p> + An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. What a + weak fool he had been and how he had been thinking of himself! He sat up, + straight and strong, his own man again. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, darling,” he said, a faint, wan smile flitting + across his face. “I was weak and selfish. I allowed myself to think + for a moment that it might be, but now I know we must say good-bye + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye?” The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was + so stubborn. “Surely, Barney, it is unreasonable to ask me to decide + at once to-night.” + </p> + <p> + He rose to his feet and lifted her gently. + </p> + <p> + “You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and it + lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly away.” His voice was + toneless, passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had left him + exhausted. His apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. It was a supreme + moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan her soul's fires into + flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out of her life, but there + was no acute sense of laceration. The inevitable had come to pass. A + silence, dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside the storm was + lashing the wet leaves against the window. + </p> + <p> + “If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will + bring me. I shall be waiting, waiting. Remember that, always waiting.” + He tightened his arms about her and without passion, but gravely, tenderly + he lifted her face. “Good-bye, my love,” he said, and kissed + her lips. “My heart's love!” Once more he kissed her. “My + life! My love!” + </p> + <p> + She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but for the + eyes that held his fast and for the lips that gave him back his kisses. + Gently he placed her on the couch. + </p> + <p> + “God keep you, darling,” he whispered, bending over her and + touching her dusky hair with his lips. + </p> + <p> + He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a heavy + load, her eyes following his every step, and reached the door. There he + paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the door, halted yet an + instant, but without turning he passed out of her sight. + </p> + <p> + An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney had left + her, dazed and tearless. + </p> + <p> + “He is gone,” she said dully. + </p> + <p> + Margaret turned upon her. “Gone? Yes. I have just seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “And I love him,” continued Iola, looking up at her with heavy + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for your + paltry, selfish ambition you send from you a man whose shoes you are not + worthy to tie!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” cried Iola piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk to me!” she replied, her lip quivering. “I + can't bear to look at you!” and she passed into her room. + </p> + <p> + It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded lightly the + love she herself would have died to gain. But long after Iola had sobbed + herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful for her own pain and for + that of the man she loved better than her life. + </p> + <p> + But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret would + not have it. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give him + pain. Do you want him to despise you and me to hate you?” + </p> + <p> + But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff Charrington who + fortunately intervened and carried Iola off with her to spend the + afternoon and evening. + </p> + <p> + “Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. + Bring your guitar with you.” + </p> + <p> + Iola demurred. + </p> + <p> + “I don't feel like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, but + remember this, the men don't like stale beer.” + </p> + <p> + This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and lay + aside the role she had unconsciously planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. + Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling animation of her + protegee. + </p> + <p> + But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull out that + night there was only dreary, voiceless misery. There was no pretence at + anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of parting would be the + end of all that had been so delightful in their old life. The days of + their long companionship were over, and to both the thought brought grief + that made words impossible. Only Margaret's presence forced them to + self-control. As to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full measure of her + grief, and her quiet, serene courage filled him with amazed admiration. At + length came the call of the bustling, businesslike conductor, “All + aboard!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Margaret,” said Barney simply, holding out his + hand. But the girl quietly put back her veil and lifted up her face to + him, her brave blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips + only said, “Good-bye, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear Margaret,” he said again, bending over her and + kissing her. + </p> + <p> + “Me, too, Barney,” said Dick, his tears openly streaming down + his face. “I'm a confounded baby! But hanged if I care!” + </p> + <p> + At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery vanished. He threw his + arms about his brother's neck, crying “Good-bye, Dick, old man. + We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, it's all come to + an end!” + </p> + <p> + Already the train was moving. + </p> + <p> + “Go, old chap,” cried Dick, pushing him away but still + clinging to him. And then, as Barney swung on to the step he called back + to them what had long been in his heart to say. + </p> + <p> + “Look after her, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney, we will,” they both cried together. And as they + stood gazing through dimming tears after the train as it sped out through + the network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, they felt that + a new bond drew them closer than before. And it was the tightening of that + bond that brought them all the comfort that there was in that hour of + misery unspeakable. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <h3> + A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + </h3> + <p> + The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had + been published. The Juniors were preparing to depart for their summer work + in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting with calm + confidence the indications of the will of Providence as to their spheres + of labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by certain letters in + their possession from leading members of influential congregations. Others + were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to tread the weary and + humiliating “trail of the black bag,” while others again, to + whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant battle, were + making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and work in the + great West, or in the far lands across the sea. + </p> + <p> + Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery + examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student party. The annual + examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerve-racking + uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of + the most innocuous kind. On the other hand, it might develop features of a + most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this year was + unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery + examination was to be of the more serious type. It was a time of + searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the session, + undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college life, and + more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the archaic and + oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these latter gentlemen the + day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning devotions, which were + marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, failed to bring them that + calmness of mind which these exercises are supposed to afford. For their + slender ray of hope that their memory of the English text might not fail + them in the hour of trial was very materially clouded by the dread that in + their embarrassment they might assign a perfectly correct English version + to the wrong Hebrew text. The result of such mischance they would not + allow themselves to contemplate. On the other hand, however, there was the + welcome possibility that they might be so able to dispose themselves among + the orientalists in their class that a word dropped at a critical moment + might save them from this mischance. And there was the further, and not + altogether unreal, ground of confidence, that the examiner himself might + be uneasily conscious of the ever-present possibility that some hidden + Hebrew snag might rudely jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the + mare ignotum of oriental literature. Of course, the examination would also + include other departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and + duty of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of + the candidates before them. On this score, however, few indulged serious + anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, both + examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty + self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with the Shorter Catechism + received during the plastic years of childhood. + </p> + <p> + It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. + On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle was the + hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the “sinners” + among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the goal posts + where, times without number, he had rescued the college from the contempt + of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with which he carried off + his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout the term, in the + college halls after tea, there had been carried on a series of discussions + extending over the whole range of the “fundamentals,” and + Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and awaken the concern of + Finlay Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, + broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, a dialectician by + training, and a man of war by the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, + for conscience' sake, have given his body to the flames, as, for + conscience' sake, he had shaken off the heretical dust of New College, + Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly surrendering at the same time, + Scot though he was, a scholarship of fifty pounds. The hope that he had + cherished of being able to find, in a colonial institution of sacred + learning, a safe haven where he might devote himself to the perfecting of + the defences of his faith within the citadel of orthodoxy was rudely + shattered by the discovery that the same heresies which had driven him + from New College had found their way across the sea and were being + championed by a man of such winning personality and undoubted scholarship + as Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind of these discussions + carried on throughout the term was such that, after much and prayerful + deliberation, and after due notice to the person immediately affected, he + discovered it to be his duty to inform the professor in whose department + these subjects lay of the heresies that were threatening the very life of + the college, and, indeed, of the Canadian Church. + </p> + <p> + The report of his interview with the professor came back to college + through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the professor's + son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a medical + degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately surrounded + by an eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert Duff, the sworn ally + of Mr. Finlayson. + </p> + <p> + “Did Finlayson see your father?” inquired Mr. Duff anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Sure thing,” answered Tom. + </p> + <p> + “And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!” + </p> + <p> + “And what did the professor say?” inquired Mr. Duff, with + bated breath. + </p> + <p> + “Told him to go to the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “To what?” gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment + that the foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been + removed. It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the + “sinners” had subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the + spirit only, and not the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent + professor, that had been translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies had + reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded professor, + those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. Alexander + Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through Finlayson, + however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That staunch + defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it his duty + to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than retail + gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off his big, + bony right hand. + </p> + <p> + The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which + gained for him the cognomen of “Squeaky Sandy,” and a most + irritatingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and + examiners were disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic + Theology, fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding + of his license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in + the college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much + heated discussion. + </p> + <p> + Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student parties. + They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was undoubtedly due, + not so much to the popularity of the professor with his students, as to + the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature generally and of + student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle lady, the + professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with very + beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was + one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper to ladies, + both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit and kindly + heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The consequence + was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the backs of her + straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished with an + abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey nooks and + corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy manners of a + decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered in the care she + took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, + wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her friends. As young + Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, “There were no last + roses in her bunch.” Moreover, the wise little lady took pains to + instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young men of the + college. + </p> + <p> + “You must exert yourselves, my dears,” she would explain, + “to make the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require + something to distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of + their studies.” + </p> + <p> + And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw + themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the + saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures in + absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from the + all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party. + </p> + <p> + Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but even + more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's college + companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme of + conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the + sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself + was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to both of + them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret extract + anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For full + details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd, + second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face and fresh + innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of “Baby Kidd,” + or more shortly, “Kiddie.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell us just what happened,” entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, + with a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly + acquiesced. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you,” he said, adopting a low confidential + tone. “I could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was + out after Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low + till everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks + over the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be + quite safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly + state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't + know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You + believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart + stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is that, + sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you believe + about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have no + theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. Then the + Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it?” inquired Miss Belle. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. + Pre-mill, too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. + But old Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on + every doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off + the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the whole + Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in Scotland.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Belle, “I don't know. And you don't, + either, so you needn't stop and try to tell us.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't, eh?” said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep + himself in a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of + Miss Belle's black eyes. “Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I + couldn't make you understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear him!” said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. “Go on. + We are interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it + seemed to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the + brethren interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after + their kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, + Mr. Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching + investigation! We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great + doctrines of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, + which is nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he + went on shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst + was yet to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and + proceeded to take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he + asked. 'Yes,' stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke + some.' 'Are you a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I + saw his head go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting + like a convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around + and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't + suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the + theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at once + what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out of his + mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a roar, and + Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery to me how + he got there. There were three pews between him and the desk, and I swear + he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, I protest', he shouted. + And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a regular sand storm! About + the only thing visible was the lightning from Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. + Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he could get a hearing, 'against + these insinuations. We all know what Mr. Naismith means by this method of + inquisition. But let me tell Mr. Naismith—' Don't know what in + thunder he was going to tell him, for the next few moments they mixed it + up good and hot. Say! it was a circus with all the monkeys loose and the + band playing seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had his say + and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full disquisition of his own + theology, and when he was done my pity was transferred from Boyle to him, + for it seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had + gone him one better. And I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly + relieved to discover how slight, by contrast, were the errors to which + Boyle had fallen. Then Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and + poured on oil, with the result that Boyle was turned over to a committee—and + that's where he is now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for + journalism. The Telegraph wants him.” + </p> + <p> + “Journalism?” cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the + dark-faced old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her + son should be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Kiddie. “And there's where he'll shine. See + what he's done with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a + row at the college!” continued Kiddie. “Old Father Finlayson + there,” nodding across the room at the Highlander, who was engaged + in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with his + hostess, “orthodox old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on + Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he has been at war with Boyle all winter + on every and all possible themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting + below the belt was too much for him. He was raging up and down the hall + like a wild man when Boyle came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to + him and seizing him by the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a + fire, 'it was a most iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no + sympathy whatever with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had + Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, + will you!” + </p> + <p> + The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror the + Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers adorned + with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling contrast with his + three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which his fond aunt had + knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of Canada. + </p> + <p> + “You may laugh,” continued Bob. “So would I yesterday. + But, by Jingo! he can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! + He's all white, and he has the heart of a gentleman!” Little Kidd's + voice went shaky and his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them + only in moments of deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had + never been so near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that + moment. She showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. + Finlayson “the time of his life,” as Kiddie himself remarked. + So assiduously, indeed, did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. + Finlayson's comfort and good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of + honour prompted him to inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss + Jennie McLean, who was to “come out to him as soon as he was placed.” + He was surprised, but entirely delighted, to discover that this + announcement made no difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At + the supper hour, however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious + countenance, yielded her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of + giving Mr. Finlayson “the time of his life.” But not a word + could she extract from him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill + that might have made a Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her + leading questions with a density of ignorance unparalleled in her + experience, until she let it be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and + dear friend. Then Mr. Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling + in his big heart at the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious + concern for his future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this + concern, at least, Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to + unburden himself, during the walk home, regarding the heresies in + Edinburgh from which he had fled and the heresies that had apparently + taken possession of Dick's mind, her heart continued to sink within her, + for it seemed that the opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all + she had held true from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, + however, did she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman + carried back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, + but withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the + young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this + theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly to + pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the professors + might cease giving parties. + </p> + <p> + The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For + if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only + increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths more + difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of darkness, + the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows, and change the + kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he light upon a + friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him to wholesome + living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze his own path + through the woods and make his own clearing in which to dwell. And he may + well thank God if his path lead him some whither where there is space + enough to work his day's work and light enough to live by. + </p> + <p> + With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend + who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be quite + abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side + Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to + right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to + wait till the better day dawned. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <h3> + WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + </h3> + <p> + The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and + its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and upland + regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons + whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. Amid these mountain + ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the immortals to whom has + come the “vision splendid” and whose are the voices that in + the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call that turns the face + upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such words as Duty, + Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a + man's while to seek and, having found, to die for. + </p> + <p> + Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But there + these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, tools for + mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of business. Here dwell + the practical men of affairs, as they love to call themselves, for whom + has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism. + </p> + <p> + And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of + politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here + the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime + puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, from + whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the + delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the + masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that + sticks and stings where it sticks. + </p> + <p> + The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type + that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called by + their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and + nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its + staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody + cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly + established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, in + consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, + where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as well + as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study euphemism. A spade + became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial deposit. Having become + by long experience a specialist in the business of moral scavenging, it + proceeded to devote itself with most vehement energy to the business of + moral reform. All indecencies that could not successfully cover themselves + with such gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up to + public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to be + respected and feared. + </p> + <p> + It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily Telegraph + seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the part which + was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, therefore, + his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university training + guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the University and + College papers had revealed him a master of terse English. He was the very + man, indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For + months he toiled amid much slime and filth, breathing in its stinking + odours, gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the + golden coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which + had formerly made his life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. + For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must + become so familiar that they no longer offended. That delicate + discrimination that immediately detects the presence of decay departed + from him, and in its place there developed a coarser sense whose + characteristic was its power to distinguish between sewage and sewage. + Hence, morality, with him, came to consist in the choosing of sewage of + the less offensive forms. On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of + heresy drove him from those scenes where the air is pure and from + association with those high souls who by mere living exhale spiritual + health and fragrance. + </p> + <p> + “We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret,” Mrs. + Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she + should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. “But I doubt + not he is very busy with his new duties.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is very busy,” Margaret would reply, striving to + guard her voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was + cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns + over the broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their + pain its own. + </p> + <p> + “Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear,” the + little lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice + betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. + </p> + <p> + But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for an + hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's + dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more often by his + attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had grown up and + ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with distrust and fear. + How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she fought to forbid them + harbour in her heart! But how persistently they made entrance and to + abide. + </p> + <p> + The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming + sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining + waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all + save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which they + build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such painful + industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out of clear + skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and castle-builders + alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time. + </p> + <p> + A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at times. + And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some new fancy + or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without remorse. To + this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving freely her great + voice and her superb body, now developed into the full splendour of its + rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about her and gave her + unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the very + soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the shrine of that + heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she could tickle their + senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and hatreds, such + among them as were female, and of their lusts and despairs such as were + male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh curves and the draperies + withal wherewith, with consummate art, she revealed or enhanced the same. + For Iola was possessed of a fatal, maddening beauty, and an alluring + fascination of manner that wrought destruction among men and fury among + women. + </p> + <p> + To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, + Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her + preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of + her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, but + nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was established + an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those conventions, unreal + and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise old world has proved, man + and woman with the dread potencies of passion slumbering within them + cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, as by their habits of + life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily association. Under Dick's + guidance she read and studied the masters of the English drama. For she + had her eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present devoting + herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. Together they took full + advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's connection with the press + gave him. And at those festive routs by which society amuses and vexes + itself they were constantly thrown together. Dick was acutely and + growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon him. Her beauty + disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from her physical charms + affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her presence he marvelled at + himself and scorned his weakness; but once within sound of her voice, + within touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The mystery of the + body, its subtle appeal, its terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. + Against this infatuation of Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She + well knew that Dick's love for her had not changed, except to grow into a + bitter, despairing intensity that made his presence painful to her at + times. This very love of his closed her lips. She could only wait her + time, meanwhile keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him + the wholesome fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a + life devoted to well doing. + </p> + <p> + Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something did + occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's life + in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had waited, + longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, until + suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it was that + Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, so tender, and + withal so humble, that even across the space that these months had put + between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred and sorely put to + it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to Margaret and read her + such parts as she thought necessary. “A year has gone. It seems like + ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. Looking back upon + that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been severe. If so, my + punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, shall I come to you? I + can offer you a home even better than I had hoped a year ago. I am offered + a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an assistantship on equal + terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond + my power to control. In spite of all that my work is to me, I find myself + looking, not into the book before me, but into your eyes—I may be + able to live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't see how I can + live at all. It seems as if I could not wait even a few days for your word + to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me to come.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I answer a letter like that?” said Iola to Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “How?” exclaimed Margaret. “Tell him to come. Wire him. + Go to him. Anything to get him to you.” + </p> + <p> + Iola mused a while. “He wants me to marry him and to keep his house.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Margaret, “he does.” + </p> + <p> + “Housekeeping and babies, ugh!” shuddered Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” cried Margaret, “ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and + babies and Barney! God pity your poor soul!” + </p> + <p> + Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she cried. “Why do you speak so?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your + woman's heart?” + </p> + <p> + From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was + growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They + were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be + supper. And when he had taken her home she would show him the letter. + </p> + <p> + On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he + suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the office. + </p> + <p> + “Let us run in for a moment,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I think I had better wait you here,” replied Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” cried Dick. “Don't be a baby. Come in.” + </p> + <p> + Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew + forth Barney's letter. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Dick. I want your advice.” And she read over such + portions of Barney's letter as she thought necessary. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, as Dick remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” replied Dick, “what's your answer to be?” + </p> + <p> + “You know what he means,” said Iola a little impatiently. + “He wants me to marry him at once and to settle down.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Dick, “why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dick,” cried Iola, “do you think I am suited for + that kind of life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a + house tidy, the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the + long, quiet evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his + patients while I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the + great world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But + I must have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten?” cried Dick. “Why should you be forgotten? + Barney's wife could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. + And, after all,” added Dick, in a musing tone, “to live with + Barney ought to be good enough for any woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!” she cried, making a little + moue. “You are quite irresistible!” she added, leaning toward + him with a mocking laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us go,” said Dick painfully, conscious of her + physical charm. “We must get away.” + </p> + <p> + “But you haven't helped me, Dick,” she cried, drawing nearer + to him and laying her hand upon his arm. + </p> + <p> + The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face and + form intoxicated him. + </p> + <p> + He knew he was losing control of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Iola,” he said, “let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what to say, Dick,” she replied, smiling into his + face and leaning toward him. + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell you?” cried Dick desperately, springing up. + “I only know you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a + devil! What has come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? + Do you know,” he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath + coming hard and fast, “I can hardly keep my hands off you. We must + go. I must go. Come!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child,” mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, + “is it afraid it will get hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Stop it, Iola!” cried Dick. “Come on!” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” she mocked, still leaning toward him. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon + her mocking face. “Kiss me!” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing him + steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, passionate lure of her + lustrous eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me!” he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding + him still with her gaze. + </p> + <p> + “God in heaven!” cried Dick. “Go away!” He made to + push her from him. She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to + sink in his arms with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed + her to him, and again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell upon her + face. + </p> + <p> + Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing + through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not the + opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For a + single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death + itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, the + two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their ghastly + faces. + </p> + <p> + “Barney!” they cried together. + </p> + <p> + Slowly he came back to them. “Yes, it is I.” The words seemed + to come from some far distance. “I couldn't wait. I came for my + answer, Iola. I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have + lost you! And”—here he turned to Dick—“oh, my God! + My God! I have lost my brother, too!” he turned to depart from him. + </p> + <p> + “Barney,” cried Dick passionately, “there was no wrong! + There was nothing beyond what you saw!” + </p> + <p> + “Was that all?” inquired his brother quietly. + </p> + <p> + “As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!” + </p> + <p> + Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and + picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed it + to his brother with his finger upon a verse. + </p> + <p> + “Read!” he said. “You know your Bible. Read!” His + voice was terrible and compelling in its calmness. + </p> + <p> + Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed to + sear his eyeballs as he read, “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust + after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” + Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word. + </p> + <p> + “I could kill you now,” said the quiet, terrible voice. + “But what need? To me you are already dead.” + </p> + <p> + When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank into + a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him stood Iola, pale, + rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She was the + first to recover. + </p> + <p> + “Dick,” she said softly, laying her hand upon his head. + </p> + <p> + He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot iron and had burned to the + bone. + </p> + <p> + “Don't touch me!” he cried in vehement frenzy. “You are + a devil! And I am in hell! In hell! do you hear?” He caught her by + the arm and shook her. “And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no + hell?” He turned again to her. “And for you, for this, and + this, and this,” touching her hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom + with his finger, “I have lost my brother—my brother—my + own brother—Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned! Damned! Damned!” + </p> + <p> + She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, “Oh, Dick, + spare me! Take me home!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” he cried in mad haste, “anywhere, in the + devil's name! Come! Come!” He seized her wrap, threw it upon her + shoulders, caught up his hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her + out. + </p> + <p> + “Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?” And + out of the embers of his passion there kindled a fire that night that + burned with unquenchable fury for many a day. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> + <h3> + THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + </h3> + <p> + The Superintendent was spending the precious hours of one of his rare + visits at home in painful plodding through his correspondence. For it was + part of the sacrifice his work demanded, and which he cheerfully made, + that he should forsake home and wife and children for his work's sake. The + Assembly's Convener found him in the midst of an orderly confusion of + papers of different sorts. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, sir?” The Superintendent's voice had a fine + burr about it that gripped the ear, and his hand a vigour and tenacity of + hold that gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's Convener and + nearly brought the little man to the floor. “Sit down, sir, and + listen to this. Here are some of the compensations that go with the + Superintendent's office. This is rich. It comes from my friend, Henry + Fink, of the Columbia Forks in the Windermere Valley. British Columbia, + you understand,” noticing the Convener's puzzled expression. “I + visited the valley a year ago and found a truly deplorable condition of + things. Men had gone up there many years ago and settled down remote from + civilization. Some of them married Indian wives and others of them ought + to have married them, and they have brought up families in the atmosphere + and beliefs of the pagans. Would you believe it, I fell in with a young + man on the trail, twenty years of age, who had never heard the name of our + Saviour except in oaths? He had never heard the story of the Cross. And + there are many others like him. At the Columbia Forks the only institution + that stands for things intellectual is a Freethinkers' Club, the president + of which is a retired colonel of the British Army, a man of fine manners, + of some degree of intelligence and reading, but, I have reason to believe, + of bad life. His is the dominant influence in the community if we except + my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known locally, 'Hank Fink.' Hank + is a character, I assure you. A Yankee from the Eastern States, the son of + a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs a store which supplies the + scattered ranchers, prospectors, and miners with the necessaries of life, + and keeps a stopping place. Is postmaster, too. In fact, Hank is pretty + much the whole village. He has lived in that country some fifteen years. + Has a good Canadian wife, and a flock of small children. He is a rara avis + in that country from the fact that he hates whiskey. He hates it almost as + much as he does Colonel Hicks and his Freethinking Club. When I visited + the village, for some reason or other Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in + him possibly recognising kinship. He gave me his store to preach in, took + me all about the country, and in a week had a mission organized on a sound + financial basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, and very + effective. He estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this + fact to the man, who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into + Hank's motives, but it seemed to give him considerable satisfaction to + learn that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful rage at + the proposal to establish a Christian mission in that remote valley. It + grieved the Colonel to think that after so many years of immunity they + should at last be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive + appendage to an effete civilization. I noticed that Hank's English always + broke down in referring to the Colonel. Well, we sent in Finlayson a year + ago this spring, you remember. Strong man, good preacher, conscientious + fellow. Thought he would do great work. You know Finlayson? Well, this is + the result.” Here he picked up Hank's letter. “This would + hardly do for the Home Mission report,” continued the + Superintendent, with a twinkle in his keen grey eyes: + </p> + <p> + “COLUMBIA FORKS, WINDERMERE, B. C. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SIR:—I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you + know how things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you this station is + goin' to the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it hadn't far + to go.] Your preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer + some people, but he ain't our style. [Mr. Finlayson would doubtless agree + with that.] He means well, but he ain't eddicated up to the West. You + remember how we got the boys all corralled up nice an' tame when you was + here. Well, he's got 'em wild. Couldn't reach 'em with a shotgun. He + throwed hell fire at 'em till they got scart an' took to the hills till + you can't get near 'em no more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit + comin'—I don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come, anyway—except + me an' Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can always count on the dog. + Now, sir, this is your show, not mine. But I was born an' raised a + Presbyteryn down East, an' though I haven't worked hard at the business + for some years, it riles me some to hear Col. Hicks an' a lot of durned + fools that has got smarter than God Almighty Himself shootin' off against + the Bible an' religion an' all that. [We needn't read too closely between + the lines at this point.] Send a man that don't smell so strong of sulphur + an' brimstone, who has got some savey, an' who will know how to handle the + boys gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a leetle wild. Send him + along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar out of that bunch of + fools. + </p> + <p> + “Yours most respeckfully, + </p> + <p> + “HENRY FINK. + </p> + <p> + “P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you could + arrange to spend a month or two I'll guarantee we will have 'em all in + nice shape. + </p> + <p> + “Yours respeckfully, + </p> + <p> + “HENRY FINK.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you can count much from the support of a man like + that,” said the assembly's Convener; “I don't think he shows + any real interest in the work.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir,” said the Superintendent, “don't you know + he is the Chairman of our Board of Management, a most regular attendant + upon ordinances and contributes most liberally to our support? And while + these things in the East wouldn't necessarily indicate a change of heart, + they stand for a good deal west of the Great Divide. And, at any rate, in + these matters we remember gratefully the word that is written, 'He that is + not against us is on our part.'” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said the Assembly's Convener, “it may be + so. It may be so. But what's to be done with Finlayson? And where will you + get a successor for him?” + </p> + <p> + “We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good man and will do + excellent work in other fields. But where to get a man for Windermere is + the question. Do you know anyone?” + </p> + <p> + The Assembly's Convener shook his head sadly. + </p> + <p> + “There appears to be no one in sight,” said the + Superintendent. “I have a number of applications here,” + picking up a good-sized bundle of neatly folded papers, “but they + are hardly the kind to suit conditions at Windermere. Numbers of them feel + themselves specially called of God to do mission work in large centres of + population. Others are chiefly anxious about the question of support. One + man would like to be in touch with a daily train service, as he feels it + necessary to keep in touch with the world by means of the daily newspaper. + A number are engaged who want to be married. Here's Mr. Brown, too fat. No + move in him. Here's McKay—good man, earnest, but not adaptable, like + Finlayson; won't do. Here's Garton—fine fellow, would do well, but + hardly strong enough. So what are you to do? I have gone over the whole + list of available men and I cannot find one suitable for Windermere.” + </p> + <p> + In this the Assembly's Convener could give him no help. Indeed, from few + did the Superintendent receive assistance in the securing of men for his + far outposts. + </p> + <p> + Assistance came to him from an unexpected quarter. He was to meet the + Assembly's Convener and some members of the Committee that evening at + Professor Macdougall's for tea. The Superintendent's mind could not be + kept long away from the work that was his very life, and at the table the + conversation turned to the question of the chronic difficulty of securing + men for frontier work, which had become acute in the case of Windermere. + Margaret, who had been invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in the dispensing + of her hospitality, was at once on the alert. Why could not Dick be sent? + If only that Presbytery difficulty could be got over he might go. That he + would be suited for the work she was well assured, and equally certain was + she that it would be good for him. + </p> + <p> + “It would save him,” Margaret said to herself with a sharp + sting at her heart, for she had to confess sadly that Dick had come to the + point where he needed saving. She had learned from Iola the whole + miserable story of Barney's visit, of his terrible indictment of his + brother and the final break between them, but she had seen little of him + during the past six months. From that terrible night Dick had gone down in + physical and in moral health. Again and again he had written Barney, but + there had been no reply. Hungrily he had come to Margaret for word of his + brother, hopeful of reconciliation. But of late he had given up hope and + had ceased to make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy, + remorseful grief into which Margaret felt she dare not intrude. He + occasionally met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all + intimacy between them. His only relief seemed to be in his work, and he + gave himself to that with such feverish energy that his health broke down, + and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his mother. Thence + he had written once to say that his days were one long agony. She + remembered one terrible sentence. “Everything here, the house, the + mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, the woods, the fields, + everything, everything shrieks 'Barney' at me till I am like to go mad. I + must get away from here to some place where he has never been with me.” + </p> + <p> + It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent that + evening for a few minutes alone. In whatever company he was, he was easily + the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days of the Manse, + had been a favourite with him, and he was not a man to forget his friends. + He had the rare gift of gripping them to him with “hooks of steel.” + Hence, he had kept in touch with her during the latter years, pitying the + girl's loneliness as much as his admiration for her cheery courage and her + determined independence would allow him. When Margaret found her + opportunity she wasted no time. + </p> + <p> + “I have a man for you for Windermere,” were her opening words. + </p> + <p> + “You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you willing to + spare him? Few young ladies are. But you are different from most.” + The Superintendent was ever a gallant. + </p> + <p> + “You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?” Her words + came hurriedly and there was a slight flush on her cheek. “There was + some trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. Naismith + was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I mean—we have always been + friends,” she hastened to add, explaining her deepening blush, + “you know his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since that day + in Presbytery he has never been the same. His work—he is on the + Daily Telegraph, you know—takes him away from—from—well, + from Church and that kind of thing, and from all his friends.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said the Superintendent, with grave sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great + trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may as well tell you. The + brothers—you remember the doctor, Barney?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” replied the Superintendent. “Strong man. + Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were everything to each other + since little fellows together. Oh, it was beautiful! I never saw anything + like it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, a terrible + misunderstanding. Dick was in the wrong.” The Superintendent shot a + keen glance at her. “No,” she said, answering his glance, the + colour in her face deepening into a vivid scarlet, “it was not about + me, not at all. I can't tell you about it, but that, and his trouble with + the Presbytery, and all the rest of it are just killing him. And I know if + he got back to his own work again and away from home it would save him, + and his mother, too, for she is breaking her heart. Couldn't you get him + out there?” + </p> + <p> + The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had been for her to tell the + story, and the sight of her eager face, the big blue eyes bright, and the + lips quivering with the intensity of her feeling, deeply touched him. + </p> + <p> + “It might be possible,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty,” cried Margaret, with a + desperate note in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “That could be arranged, I have no doubt,” said the + Superintendent, brushing aside that difficulty with a wave of the hand. + “The question is, would he be willing to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him and if you told him + those stories about the need there is, I am sure he would go. Could you + see him? There is no use to write. I do wish you could. He is such a fine + boy and his mother is so set upon his being a minister.” The blue + eyes were bright with tears she was too brave to let fall. + </p> + <p> + “My dear young lady,” said the Superintendent, his deep voice + growing deeper under the intensity of his feelings, “I would do much + for your sake and for your mother's. I am to visit your home early next + month. I shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, and I promise you I shall + get him if it is possible.” + </p> + <p> + The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart deprived the girl of + speech, but she shyly put out her hand and touched the long, sinewy + fingers that lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. Instantly the + fingers closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong that it seemed to drive + the conviction into her heart that somehow this strong man would find a + way by which Dick could be saved. + </p> + <p> + How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent overcame Dick's objections, + Margaret never learned. But the full bitter tale of reasons against his + ever taking up his work again, with which Dick had made himself so + familiar during the past dark, dreary months, were one by one removed, and + when the Superintendent left the Old Stone Mill he had secured his + missionary for Windermere. It gave the Superintendent acute satisfaction + to remember the flash of his missionary's blue eyes as, in answer to the + warning, “You will have a hard fight of it, remember,” the + reply came, “A hard fight? Thank God!” + </p> + <p> + Before the year was over it fell that the Windermere valley came to be one + of the mission fields that gladdened the hearts of the Home Mission + Committee of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of its doughty + Convener. In the Convener's study, eight by ten, the report from the + Windermere field was discussed with the ubiquitous and indefatigable + Superintendent. + </p> + <p> + “An extremely gratifying record,” said the Superintendent, + “especially when one considers its disorganized condition a year + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's a good report,” assented the Convener. “We + had practically no support a year ago. Our strongest man—” + </p> + <p> + “Fink?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's enthusiasm and devotion + were hardly of what you would call the purest type. But whatever his + motive, he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is a splendid + testimony of the power of the Gospel to see the change in that same shrewd + old sinner. Yes, sir, give the Gospel a chance and it will do its work.” + The Convener, who hated all cant and canting phrases with a perfect + hatred, rarely allowed himself the luxury of an emotional outbreak. But + the case of Hank Fink seemed to reach the springs of feeling that he kept + hidden in the deep heart of him. + </p> + <p> + “So Boyle has done well?” said the Superintendent. “I am + very glad of it. Very glad of it, for his own sake, for his mother's, and + for the sake of another.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the Convener, “Boyle has done a fine bit + of work. He lived all summer on his horse's back and in his canoe, + followed the prospectors up into the gulches and the miners to their + mines, if you can call them mines, left a magazine here, a book there, a + New Testament next place. And once he got his grip on a man, he never let + him go. Hank told me how he found a man sick in a camp away up in a gulch + and how he stayed with him for more than a week, then brought him down on + his horse's back to the Forks. Yes, it's a good record. A church built at + the north end of the field, another almost completed at the Forks. Really, + it was very fine,” continued the Convener, allowing his enthusiasm + to rise. “It renews one's faith in the reality of religion to see a + man jump into his work like that. They didn't pay him his salary the first + half year, but he omitted to mention that in his report.” + </p> + <p> + The Superintendent sat up straight. “Is he behind yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and explained that if the field + failed it was Boyle that would suffer. His language—well,” the + Convener laughed reminiscently, “you have seen Hank?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've read him. But let us + hope that his deeds will atone in a measure for his broken English. But,” + continued the Superintendent, “you have had Boyle ordained, have you + not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We got him ordained,” replied the Convener, beginning to + chuckle. A delighted, choking chuckle it was. Any missionary who had + worked in his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the dark by that + chuckle. It began, if one were quick to observe, with a wrinkling about + the corners of the sharp blue eyes, then became audible in a succession of + small explosions that seemed to have their origin in the region of the + esophagus and to threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was + found in a wide-throated peal that subsided in a second series of small + explosions and gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the region + of the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners of the blue + eyes as a kind of warning that the whole process might be repeated upon + sufficient provocation. “Yes, we got him ordained,” he + repeated when the chuckle had passed. “I was glad of your + explanatory note about him. It guided us in our arrangements for + examination.” + </p> + <p> + “What happened?” inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. + He dearly loved a yarn, and he sorely hated to lose any of the more + humorous incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they brought + him, but also because they furnished him with ammunition for his Eastern + campaigns. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was funny,” said the Convener, his lips twitching + and his eyes wrinkling, “though at one time it looked like an + Assembly case with all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, + our latest importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got wind + of Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in the East. McPherson is a fine + fellow and doing good work.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” assented the Superintendent, “he's a fine fellow, + but his conscience gives him a hard time now and then and works over time + for other People.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” continued the Convener, “McPherson came to me + about the matter in very considerable anxiety. I put him off, consulted + with McTavish and Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man to + lose, and as to his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far as we + could learn. So it happened”—here the Convener pulled himself + up short to suppress the chuckle that threatened—“it happened + that just as the examination was beginning McPherson was called out, and + before he had returned the trials for license and ordination had been + sustained. I think on the whole McPherson was relieved, but there were + some funny moments after he came back into court.” + </p> + <p> + “Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West,” said the + Superintendent. “There's no time for it. Some of the Eastern + Presbyteries have too many men with more time on their hands than sense in + their heads.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly there was no time lost in this case,” replied the + Convener. “We knew Boyle's scholarship was right. We knew his heart + was sound. We knew he was doing good work for us and we knew we wanted + him. We were not anxious to know anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “What we want for the West,” said the Superintendent, his + voice vibrating in a deeper tone, “is men who have the spirit of the + Gospel with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with + tact to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, more or less, won't + hurt them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other fellow's.” + </p> + <p> + “In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. It + gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with all heretics. It was that more + than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again + on the scent, “I didn't hear that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Convener, “Fink told me about it. Boyle + went to their meetings. He found them revelling in cheap scepticism of the + Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a working + theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to—his real attitude, + mind you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of their positions + and, as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water and had them froggin' + for their lives. He was the biggest Freethinker in the bunch.' They + invited him to give a series of lectures. He did so, and that settled the + Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for doubting anything, and I + believe that's right.” The Convener was a bit of a heretic himself + and, consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. “Let a man + doubt till he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them + doubt, but he insisted that they should have something positive to live + by.” + </p> + <p> + “Our friend Hank,” said the Superintendent, “would be + delighted.” + </p> + <p> + “Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his + mirth,' for Boyle got after him with the same demands.” + </p> + <p> + The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his missionary. + “That's the kind of man we want. He ought to do well in your + railroad field.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the Convener hesitatingly. “You think he + ought to go? Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't care to go in there + after Boyle is removed.” + </p> + <p> + “It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That + railroad work is most pressing, and only a man like Boyle will do. There + will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter between + Macleod and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have had correspondence + with Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's Nest line, and he is not + unfriendly, though he would prefer us to send in medical missionaries. But + that work he and his contractors ought to look after.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I + fear, from all reports,” replied the Convener. “By the way, + there is a young English doctor working on that eastern division from the + MaCleod end who is making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I believe. He + began as a navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, and the doctor a poor + drunken fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long as he could, then + finally threw him out of the camp and installed himself in his place. The + contractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the medical work in + that direction. Murray told me the most wonderful tales about him. He must + be a remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't have it + near the camp. You ought to look him up when you go in.” + </p> + <p> + “I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people + ought to feel disgraced in employing them. They draw their fifty cents per + man a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a delicate matter, but + I shall take this up with Fahey when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but + he is fair and he won't stand any nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think Boyle ought to go in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of + men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of things. + Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he + came to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me for + weeks. He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life.” + </p> + <p> + The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare gift of + silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break no confidence. + But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and after he had + sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already written, on + the table and sat back in his chair indulging himself in a few moments of + reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept kitchen in the Old Stone Mill and, + bending over his letter a woman, dark-faced and stern, her wavy, black + hair heavily streaked with white, for during the past years the sword had + pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her tragic Highland face as + she read of her boy and his well doing. With glad heart she had given him + up, and now, with humble joy, she would read that her offering had been + accepted. + </p> + <p> + The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with all its + beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl pleading for her + friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her + invincible faith, “I know that if he got at his own work again it + would save him.” He could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of + her fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be + fulfilled. He had kept his word and her faith had not been put to shame. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> + <h3> + THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + </h3> + <p> + “Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick + himself ye're dodgin'.” + </p> + <p> + Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan camps, + admonished his half-broken bronchos. + </p> + <p> + “Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this + hill alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! + that's over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be + praised! He's there yit,” said Tommy to himself. “We're on the + dump now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av + Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!” + </p> + <p> + The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush + roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath their feet, + set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was driving + bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared nothing for + himself. His concern was for the man lying under the buffalo robes in the + sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless lope, + encouraged by the cheery admonitions and the cracking whip of their + driver. + </p> + <p> + “Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey. + I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste.” + </p> + <p> + He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a + flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the sick man. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Scotty,” he said coaxingly, “take another taste. + It'll put life into ye.” The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, + choked hard, then shook his head. “Now, God be merciful! an' can't + ye swally at all? An' the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty + darlin'. Ye'll need it an' we're not far aff now.” Once more the + sick man made a desperate effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, + then turned away his head. The tender-hearted little Irishman covered him + over carefully and climbed into his seat. “He couldn't swally it,” + he said to himself in an awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, + “Begorra, an' it's near the Kingdom he must be!” To Tommy it + appeared an infallible sign of approaching dissolution that a man should + reject the contents of his flask. He gave himself to the business of + getting out of the bronchos all the speed they had. “Come on, now, + me bhoys!” he shouted through the gale, “what are ye lookin' + at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than yerselves can be seen in the dark. + Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're + beginin' to move! Hooray!” + </p> + <p> + So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came out + into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the lights of the new + railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1. + </p> + <p> + “Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that + thought ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In + ten howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life + into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?” But there was no + movement in response. “Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!” + He stood up over his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were + going at full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came + on the driving wind. “Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's + pay day an' the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found + near at hand!” + </p> + <p> + Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the + various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building, the + bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the + glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the + “red lights,” the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and + mining camps in British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their + baleful lure through the snowy night. + </p> + <p> + At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first saloon + and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying out, “Give + us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!” Swipey, the + saloon-keeper, came himself to the door. + </p> + <p> + “What have you there, Tommy?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye + there, Scotty?” There was no answer. “The saints be good to + us! Are ye alive at all?” He lifted back the buffalo robe from the + sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. + “Where's yer doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't seen him raound,” said Swipey. “Have you, + Shorty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the man called Shorty. “He's in there + with the boys.” + </p> + <p> + Tommy swore a great oath. “Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, + dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!” + </p> + <p> + “He's not that way,” replied Swipey, “our doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much he ain't!” cried Shorty. “But he's into the + biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp.” + </p> + <p> + “Fer the love av Hivin git him!” cried Tommy. “The man + is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no place here for a sick man,” said the + saloon-keeper. + </p> + <p> + “What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time.” An + angry murmur ran through the men about the door. “Take him up to the + bunk-house,” said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. + “What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick + man? How do you know what he's got?” + </p> + <p> + “What differ does it make what he's got?” retorted Tommy. + “Blank yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty + of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man + to?” he cried, appealing to the crowd. “Ye can't let him die + on the street!” + </p> + <p> + Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of + the “Frank” saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or + eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of “Black + Jack” for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat “Mexico,” + the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face + adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance + relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had + not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the + game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right + hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, + having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on + their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from + time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, + colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set + and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of + men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor's wanted!” shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. + Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor + remained unmoved. + </p> + <p> + “There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2,” continued Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!” growled out + “Mexico,” who had for the greater part of the evening been + playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn. + </p> + <p> + “He's out here in the snow,” continued Shorty, “an' he's + chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked up from his hand. “Put him in somewhere. I'll be + along soon.” + </p> + <p> + “They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's + chokin' to death.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor turned down his cards. “What do you say? Choking to + death?” He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct + began to assert itself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” continued Shorty. “There's somethin' wrong with + him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor pushed back his chair. “Here, men,” he said, + “I'm going to quit.” + </p> + <p> + A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal. + </p> + <p> + “You can't quit now!” growled “Mexico” fiercely, + like a dog that is about to lose a bone. “You've got to give us a + chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, here's your chance then,” cried the doctor. “Let's + stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred + apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if + there's a dollar, and quit. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + The greatness of the opportunity staggered them. + </p> + <p> + Then they flung themselves upon it. “It's a go!” “Come + on!” “Give us your cards!” Quickly the cards were dealt. + One by one the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon + them in breathless excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so + reckless a stake. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then, show down,” growled “Mexico.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their + hands. He had won. With an oath “Mexico” made a grab for the + pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the + doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak “Mexico” + was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair. + </p> + <p> + “Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game,” + said the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing + them down into his pocket. “Where's your sick man?” + </p> + <p> + “This way, doctor,” said Shorty, hurrying out toward the + sleigh. The doctor passed him on a run. + </p> + <p> + “What does this mean?” he cried. “Why haven't you got + him inside somewhere?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I say, docthor,” answered Tommy, “but the + bloody haythen wudn't let him in.” + </p> + <p> + “How's this, Swipey?” said the doctor sternly, turning to the + saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door. + </p> + <p> + “He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take that responsibility,” replied the doctor. “In + he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now.” + </p> + <p> + Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to + do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door. + </p> + <p> + “Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be + quick about it.” + </p> + <p> + Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. “It must be warm, eh? Want + a bath in it next, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “This will do,” said the doctor when they reached the room. + “Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty.” + Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man + undressed and in bed between heated blankets. “Now, hold the light. + We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I + come back.” + </p> + <p> + He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to + his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two + hot-water bottles. + </p> + <p> + “We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these + full of hot water for me.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Doctor?” cried Shorty anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Go quick!” The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that + before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. + With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the + antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this + mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. + Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way.” Again + he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second + injection. “There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent + a man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, + don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here within + an hour.” Shorty turned to go. “Wait. Do you know this man's + name?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, + I think.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Now, go and get the teamster.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor turned to his struggle with death. “There is no chance, + no chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!” he muttered, + as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to + get his breath. + </p> + <p> + After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction of + seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had given up + all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase his rage to + see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he could, the heart + was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was simply a matter of + minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and + looked about. The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying + to make out the words which poor Scotty was making such painful efforts to + utter. But no words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed to the + chair on which his clothes lay. + </p> + <p> + “You want something out of your pocket?” inquired the doctor. + The eyes gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found + in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes + that had followed every movement expressed satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to read it?” + </p> + <p> + It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing gratitude + for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, love + without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's fortitude + to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his + face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor put the letter into + his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it + and with difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes + remained closed as if in peace, but only for a moment. Once more they + rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face. + </p> + <p> + “Something else in your pocket?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came to + a large worn pocketbook. + </p> + <p> + “This?” + </p> + <p> + With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket + he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes of + the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his hand + and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to + question. + </p> + <p> + “You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your + eyes.” The eyes remained wide open. “No? You want me to do + something for you? To write?” At once the eyes closed. “I + shall write to your mother and send all your things and tell them about + you.” A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as if + content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In vain the + doctor tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to move. Putting his ear + close, the doctor caught the word “Thank.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank who? The teamster?” + </p> + <p> + The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you,” said + the doctor. “Anything else?” + </p> + <p> + The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon + the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, + till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, putting + his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, “Mother—home,” + and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?” And + once more a glad smile lit up the distorted face. + </p> + <p> + For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through + the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken + song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the + door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After + the spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his + breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their + appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening intently, + he heard the word, “Pray.” The doctor's pale face flushed + quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, “I'm + no good at that.” Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, + and again the doctor caught the words, “Jesus, tender—.” + It had been the doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had + passed his lips. He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer + mockery. But the eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him + to begin. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said the doctor through his set teeth, “I'll + do it.” + </p> + <p> + And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn + silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of + that ancient child's prayer, “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” + At the third verse, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let my sins be all forgiven, + Bless the friends I love so well, + Take me when I die to heaven, + Happy there with Thee to dwell.” + </pre> + <p> + there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content, and + then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer had come, + “Happy there with Thee to dwell.” Poor Scotty! Out from the + sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been + taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more out + forever. + </p> + <p> + Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears. + As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply + about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping their + eyes and struggling with their sobs. + </p> + <p> + “Confound you, Shorty!” burst forth the doctor wrathfully, + “what in the mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did + you ever see a dead man before?” The doctor was clearly in a rage. + During the weeks Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show + anything but a perfectly cold and self-composed face. “Is this the + teamster?” continued the doctor. “Come in here. You see that + man? Someone has murdered him. Who sent him down here through this storm? + How long had he been ill? Have you a doctor up there? Are there any more + sick? Why don't you speak up? What's your name?” In an angry flood + the questions poured forth upon the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. + “Why don't you speak?” said the doctor again. + </p> + <p> + Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to require + least thought to answer. “Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An' sure + it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the man wuz + dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles, an' up an' + down the hills like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you no doctor up there?” + </p> + <p> + “Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste + that he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the + pig.” + </p> + <p> + “Are there any more sick?” + </p> + <p> + “Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than + poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking + rapidly, “Go and bring to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say + not a word to anyone, mind that. And you,” he said, turning to + Tommy, “can you start back in an hour?” + </p> + <p> + “I can that same, if I must.” + </p> + <p> + “You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. + Get something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room. + </p> + <p> + “This man,” said the doctor, “is dead. Diphtheria. There + is no fear, Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, + and you will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall + fumigate this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no + further danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night, doctor!” cried the foreman. “It's blowing a + regular blizzard. Can't you wait till morning?” + </p> + <p> + “There are men sick at No. 2,” said the doctor. “The + chances are it's diphtheria.” + </p> + <p> + In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp + possessed. + </p> + <p> + “Have you had something to eat, Tommy?” inquired the doctor, + stepping out from the saloon. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I have,” replied Tommy. + </p> + <p> + “All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I know it, begob!” said Tommy. “I'll stay wid + yez. It's mesilf that knows a man whin I see him.” + </p> + <p> + And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing to + find in the call to a fight with death that excitement without which it + seemed he could not live. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <h3> + THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + </h3> + <p> + At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. The + line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed to have + dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was almost in + despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant a serious + reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract. + </p> + <p> + The foreman, Craigin, was a man from “across the line,” + skilled in railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation + as a “driver.” He was a man of great physical force and + indomitable will, and gifted in large measure with the power of command. + He knew his business thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of + the machinery and men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, + and no man on the line could get a bigger day out of his force than could + Craigin. His men he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what + was called his “scrap-heap policy.” When any part of the + machinery ceased to do first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as + with the machinery, so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in + the camp and must be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had + little faith in human nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse + was to suspect him of malingering, and hence the standing order of the + camp in regard to a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out + of the camp. Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as + thoroughly they dreaded to fall under his displeasure. + </p> + <p> + The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce + and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry + weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was not + discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the + mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After the + frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all waited + the warm weather of spring with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the + team. + </p> + <p> + “Where are your stables, Tommy?” + </p> + <p> + “Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” murmured the doctor. “How many men have you + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the + road.” + </p> + <p> + “What are your sanitary arrangements?” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean how do you—what are your arrangements for keeping the + camp clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men + living together without some sanitary arrangements.” + </p> + <p> + “Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through + the week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near + the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs.” + </p> + <p> + “And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?” + </p> + <p> + “It is that same.” + </p> + <p> + “And why was it built so close as that?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back + av it.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor gave it up. “Drive on,” he said. “But what a + beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, + fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer + mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods,” replied Tom. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that + would be a fine spot for the camp.” + </p> + <p> + “It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is.” + </p> + <p> + As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he + dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of + that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede + followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Yonie!” cried Tommy. “What's afther gittin' ye + up so early?” + </p> + <p> + “It is no sleep for dis,” cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his + throat. + </p> + <p> + The doctor sprang from the sleigh. “Let me look at your throat.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the docthor, Yonie,” explained Tommy, whereupon the + Swede submitted to the examination. + </p> + <p> + The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping + through the treetops, and looked into his throat. “My man, you go + right back to bed quick.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it will not to bed,” replied Yonie. “Big work + to-day, boss say. He not like men sick.” + </p> + <p> + “You hear me,” said the doctor sharply. “You go back to + bed. Where's your doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder,” said Tommy, + pointing the way. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind now. Where are your sick men?” + </p> + <p> + “De seeck mans?” replied the cook. “She's be hall overe. + On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for + den seeck mans hall aroun'.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! + But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! + dat's what you call lak' one beas'.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern + swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the + picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern. + </p> + <p> + “Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your + throats, men.” + </p> + <p> + “Dis de docteur, men,” said the cook. + </p> + <p> + A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with + each examination. + </p> + <p> + “Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this + cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp.” + </p> + <p> + “Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the + stink of it would make a well man sick.” + </p> + <p> + “And is there no place else?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Unless it's the stables,” said another man; “they're + not quite so bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give + you something.” He opened his bag, took out his syringe. “Here, + Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve.” And in three + minutes he had given all four an antitoxin injection. “Now, we'll + see the doctor. By the way what's his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Hain,” said the cook, “dat's his nem.” + </p> + <p> + “Haines,” explained one of the men. + </p> + <p> + “Dat's what I say,” said the cook indignantly, “Hain.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and, + getting no response, opened it and walked in. + </p> + <p> + “Be the powers, Narcisse!” cried Tommy, as the cook stood + looking after the doctor, “it's little I iver thought I'd pity that + baste, but Hivin save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. + An' begob, he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid him.” + </p> + <p> + But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious + etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping heavily + in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the outbreak of + sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with an anxious + foreboding in regard to the sick man who had been sent out the day before. + Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken fool in the + presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness that he had + found it necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large and frequent + doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly medical purposes. + With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When fully awake he was + aware of a young man with a very pale and very stern face standing over + him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began: + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp.” + </p> + <p> + “Who the deuce are you?” replied Haines, staring up at him. + </p> + <p> + “They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey?” said Haines, sitting up. “Oh, I've heard + of you.” His tone indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, + it was his special chum and confrere who had been ejected from his + position in the Gap camp through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures. + </p> + <p> + “You have some very sick men in the camp,” repeated Dr. + Bailey, his voice sharp and stern. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a little tonsilitis,” replied Haines in an indifferent + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Diphtheria,” said Bailey shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Diphtheria be hanged!” replied Haines insolently; “I + examined them carefully last night.” + </p> + <p> + “They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of + looking into their throats.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here to + interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your professional + manners?” Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the intrusion of + this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the crime of his youth that + of being guilty of a serious breach of professional etiquette. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to apologize for looking at your patients,” said Dr. + Bailey. “I came in thinking I might be of some assistance in dealing + with this outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious to see—” + </p> + <p> + “Diphtheria!” blurted Haines. “Nothing of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night had it.” + </p> + <p> + “HAD it?” + </p> + <p> + “He died an hour after arriving at No. 1.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead? Cursed fool! He WOULD go against my will.” + </p> + <p> + “Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of + diphtheria leave this camp against your will with the company's team?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and the + foreman would have him out.” + </p> + <p> + “There are at least four men going about the camp—they are now + in the cook-house where the breakfast is being prepared—who are + suffering from a severe attack of diphtheria.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?” said + Dr. Haines petulantly. “No appliances, no means of isolation, no + nurses, nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. What can + I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ask me?” The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. + “Isolate the infected at least.” + </p> + <p> + Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he poured out a + cupful of whiskey from a bottle standing on a convenient shelf. “Isolate? + How can I isolate? There's no building in which—” + </p> + <p> + “Make one.” + </p> + <p> + “Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do you + know where you are? Do you know who is running this camp?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I do know that these men must be isolated within an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible! I tell you it is impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last + night would result in the verdict of manslaughter. There was no inquest. + There will be on the next man that dies if there is any neglect.” + </p> + <p> + The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. “Well,” + he said, “if you think you can isolate them, go ahead. I'll see the + foreman.” + </p> + <p> + “Every minute is precious. I gave those four men antitoxin. Are + there others?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know,” Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, + followed by Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door they met the foreman. + </p> + <p> + “This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin.” Craigin growled out a + salutation. “Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have diphtheria.” + </p> + <p> + “How does he know?” inquired Craigin shortly. + </p> + <p> + “He has examined them this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't know they have diphtheria?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Haines weakly. + </p> + <p> + “These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they + ought to be isolated at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Isolated? How?” + </p> + <p> + “A separate camp must be built and someone appointed to attend them.” + </p> + <p> + “A separate camp!” exclaimed Craigin; “I'll see them + blanked first! Look here, Haines, let's have no nonsense about this. I'm + three weeks, yes, a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank + muskeg is knocking the whole contract endways. We can't spare a single man + half a day. And more than that, you go talking diphtheria in this camp and + you can't hold the men here an hour. It's all I can do to hold them as it + is.” And Craigin went off into an elaborate course of profanity + descriptive of the various characteristics of the men in his employ. + </p> + <p> + “But what is to be done?” asked Haines helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, anyway. + It's fine to-day. We'll send every man Jack out to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “These men can't be moved,” said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. + “You sent a man out yesterday and he's dead.” + </p> + <p> + “He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's none + of YOUR business. Look here, Haines, you know me. I'm not going to have + any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and all that blankety + blank rot. Dose 'em up good and send 'em out.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of the foreman. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craigin, it would be murder,” said Dr. Bailey, “sure + murder. Some of them might get through. Some would be sure to die. The + consequences to those responsible—to Dr. Haines, for instance—would + be serious. I am quite sure he will never give orders that these men + should be moved.” + </p> + <p> + “He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will + give the orders right enough.” Craigin's laugh was like the growl of + a bear. “There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear me. + Those men are going out to-day, and so are you, you blank, blank + interferin' skunk.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. “You may call me what you + please just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the day is over you won't have enough + names left. For I tell you that these men suffering from diphtheria are + going to stay here, and are going to be properly cared for.” + </p> + <p> + Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced stranger should presume to + come into his domain, where his word was wont to run as absolute law, + filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were serious issues at stake, + and with a supreme effort he controlled the passionate longing to spring + upon this upstart and throttle him. He turned sharply to Haines. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out to-day?” + </p> + <p> + Haines hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You understand me, Haines; these men go out or—” + </p> + <p> + Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A moment more + he paused and then surrendered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I guess + they can go out.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Haines,” said Craigin, “is that your decision?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned + to Tommy, who was standing near with half a dozen men who had just come + out from breakfast. “Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams ready + and all the buffalo robes you need and be ready to start in an hour. Do + you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Tommy, turning slowly away. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, “you + took a man out from this camp yesterday. Tell the men here what happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, they all know it,” said Tommy, who had already told the + story of poor Scotty's death and of the doctor's efforts to save him. + “An' it's a fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av + him all the way down, an' not able to swally a taste whin I gave it to + him.” + </p> + <p> + Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. “Here you blank, blank, + blank! Do what I tell you! And the rest of you men, what are you gawkin' + at here? Get to work!” + </p> + <p> + The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked quickly + past Craigin into the midst of the group. + </p> + <p> + “Men, I want to say something to you.” His voice commanded + their instant attention. “There are half a dozen of your comrades in + this camp sick with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They ought to be + isolated to prevent the spread of the disease, and they ought to be cared + for at once. The foreman proposes to send them out. One went out + yesterday. He died last night. If these men go out to-day some of them + will die, and it will be murder. What do you say? Will you let them go?” + A wrathful murmur ran through the crowd, which was being rapidly increased + every moment by others coming from breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!” shouted + Craigin, pouring out oaths. “And you,” turning toward Dr. + Bailey, “get out of this camp.” + </p> + <p> + “I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines,” replied Dr. + Bailey. “He has asked my advice, and I am giving it.” + </p> + <p> + “Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it!” + </p> + <p> + By this time the men were fully roused. One of them came forward. + </p> + <p> + “What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to work, McLean?” shouted Craigin furiously. + “If not, go and get your time.” + </p> + <p> + “We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin,” + said McLean quietly. “It's a serious matter. We are all concerned in + it, and we'll decide in a few minutes what is to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time,” + said Craigin, and he turned away and passed into the office. + </p> + <p> + “What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” said McLean, + ignoring the foreman. + </p> + <p> + “Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and + where they can be kept from infecting the rest of the camp. Half a day's + work of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of them will die. + Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you have already been + infected.” + </p> + <p> + At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the disease, were + for sending out the sick immediately, but the majority would not listen to + this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came again to Dr. Bailey. + </p> + <p> + “The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be + stamped out here if you have a separate camp for an hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “We can guarantee nothing,” replied Dr. Bailey. “But it + is altogether the safer way to fight the disease. And I am of the opinion + that we can stamp it out.” The doctor's air and tone of quiet + confidence, far more than his words, decided the men's action. In a minute + more it was agreed that the sick men should stay and that they would all + stand together in carrying out the plan of isolation. + </p> + <p> + “If he gives any of us time,” said Tommy, “we'll all + take it, begob.” + </p> + <p> + “No, men,” said the doctor, “let's not make trouble. I + know Mr. Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and he'll do what's + fair. Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen + men—one must be able to cook—and in half a day the work will + be finished. I will be personally responsible for everything.” + </p> + <p> + At this point Craigin came out. “Here's your time, McLean,” he + said, thrusting a time check at him. + </p> + <p> + McLean took it without a word and went over and stood by Dr. Bailey's + side. + </p> + <p> + “Who are coming?” called out McLean. + </p> + <p> + “All of us,” cried a voice. “Pick out your men, McLean.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said McLean, looking over the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “I'm wan,” said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. + “I seen him shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus fightin' fer his life, + an' if I'm tuk it's him I want beside me.” + </p> + <p> + One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the doctor, + while the rest of the men moved off to work. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for half a day.” + said Dr. Bailey. + </p> + <p> + For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for + consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen men were in his path before + he had taken the second step. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on, Mr. Craigin,” said McLean, “we want no + violence. We're going to do what we think right in this matter, so you may + as well make up your mind to it.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Craigin,” continued the doctor, “we shall need + some things out of your stores.” + </p> + <p> + Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. “Your + time is waiting you, men. And listen to me. If any man goes near that + there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've got the law and + I'll do it, so help me God.” He went into the office and returned in + a moment with a Winchester, which he loaded in full view of the men. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind him, boys,” said the doctor cheerily, “I'm + going to have breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you.” + </p> + <p> + In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in his + hand, to find the men still waiting his orders and Craigin on guard with + his Winchester. + </p> + <p> + “Don't go just yet,” said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, + “we'll get round him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he'll not shoot,” said Dr. Bailey. + </p> + <p> + “He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. He'll shoot and he'll + kill, too.” + </p> + <p> + For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him waiting + his lead. Craigin with his rifle held them all in check. A moment's + thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward Craigin and said in + a clear voice, “Mr. Craigin, these stores are necessary to save + these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to take them. Murder me, if + you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear me, men.” Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. + “These stores are in my charge. I am an officer of the law. If any + man lays his hand on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear me, Mr. Craigin,” replied Dr. Bailey. “I'm here in + consultation with Dr. Haines, who has turned over this matter to my + charge. In a case of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. This whole + camp is under his authority. These stores are necessary, and I am going to + get them.” He well knew the weak spot in his position, but he + counted on Craigin's nerve breaking down. In that, however, he was + mistaken. Without haste, but without hesitation, he walked toward the + storehouse door. When three paces from it Craigin's voice arrested him. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, you're + a dead man!” + </p> + <p> + Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men with + varying cries rushed toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. + Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, the smoking + rifle dropping from his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Begob, I niver played baseball,” cried Tommy, rushing in and + seizing the rifle, “but many's the time I've had the divarsion in + the streets av Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick.” + </p> + <p> + A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's life. They + carried Craigin into the office and laid him on the bed, the blood + streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quickly Dr. Bailey got to + work and before Craigin had regained consciousness the wound was sewed up + and dressed. Then giving him over to the charge of Haines, Dr. Bailey went + about the work he had in hand. + </p> + <p> + Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered to be + in various stages of diphtheria were comfortably housed in a roomy + building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, with a + small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate in charge. And before night had + fallen the process of disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, and + cookery was well under way, while all who had been in immediate contact + with the infected men had been treated by the doctor with antitoxin as a + precautionary measure. + </p> + <p> + Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue still + undecided, but the chances for winning were certainly greater than they + had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able to take command + again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for the next two days, the + work on the dump was prosecuted with all vigour, the men feeling in honour + bound to support the doctor in that part of the fight which fell to them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <h3> + THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + </h3> + <p> + Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, good-humoured face, which + usually wore a smile indicating content with the world and especially with + himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was beating him, and he hated + to be beaten. He was bringing in General Manager Fahey to have a look at + things. It was important to awaken the sympathy of the General Manager, + if, indeed, this could be accomplished. But the General Manager had a way + of insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and this stretch in + Maclennan's charge was the one spot which the General Manager feared would + occasion delay. + </p> + <p> + “There's the hole,” said Maclennan, as they turned down the + hill into the swamp. “Into that hole,” he continued, pointing + to where the dump ended abruptly in the swamp, “I can't tell you how + many millions of carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was + never beaten in my life, but that hole—” + </p> + <p> + “Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or trestled, + and we can't wait too long, either.” + </p> + <p> + The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of energy + in railroad construction that refused to consider obstacles. Nothing could + stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the weight of his + determination simply had to move in one direction or other. The contractor + that failed expected no mercy, and received none. + </p> + <p> + “We're doing our best,” said Maclennan, “and we will + continue to do our best. Hello! what's this? What's Craigin doing up here? + Hold up, Sandy. We'll look in.” + </p> + <p> + At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met him. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Doctor! What have you got here?” + </p> + <p> + “Isolation hospital,” replied the doctor shortly. + </p> + <p> + “What hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Isolation.” + </p> + <p> + “Has Craigin gone mad all at once?” + </p> + <p> + “Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a new boss in camp.” + </p> + <p> + A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. Haines was + beginning to enjoy himself. + </p> + <p> + “A new boss? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into + this camp three days ago, raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up + Craigin with a broken head, and took charge of the camp.” Maclennan + stood in amazement looking from Haines to the General Manager. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do with + it? And how did Craigin come to allow him?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask Craigin,” replied Haines. + </p> + <p> + “What have you got in there, Doctor?” asked Mr. Fahey. + </p> + <p> + “Diphtheria patients.” + </p> + <p> + “How many?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we began with eight three days ago and we've ten to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this knocks me out,” said Maclennan. “Where's + Craigin, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “He's down in his own room in bed.” + </p> + <p> + Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. “Come on, Fahey,” he + said, “let's go down. Something extraordinary has happened. You + can't believe that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?” + </p> + <p> + Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any + situation. “I can't help it, Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of cigars + that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. But it's no + laughing matter,” continued the General Manager, sobering up. + “This has a very serious aspect. There are a whole lot of men sick + in our camps. You contractors don't pay enough attention to your health.” + </p> + <p> + “Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time + to think of health.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of + health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that string of + men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never should + have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either shovel or + axe. They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or something; they're not + fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my theory is that + every camp should have an hospital, with three main hospitals along this + branch. There's one at Macleod. It is filled, overflowing. A young + missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook supported + by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, too; but it's overflowing. + There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss Robertson, and she's a daisy. + The trouble there is you can't get the fellows to leave, and I don't blame + them. If ever I get sick send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had + two or three first-class men, with three main hospitals, a branch in every + camp, we'd keep the health department in first-class condition. The men + would stay with us. We'd get altogether better results.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” said Maclennan, “but where are you + to get your first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors + or some big bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man + Haines. He doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey + seems to be different. He certainly knows his work and he never touches + whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had + things in great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness + or busy he's all right, but when things get quiet he hits the green table + hard. He's a wonder at poker, they say.” + </p> + <p> + The General Manager pricked up his ears. “Poker, eh? I'll remember + that.” + </p> + <p> + “But this here business is going too far,” continued + Maclennan. “I didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what + Craigin has to say.” + </p> + <p> + As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook. + </p> + <p> + “Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?” + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, cook,” said Maclennan. “Yes, we'll take a cup + of tea in a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin.” + </p> + <p> + Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, “M'sieu + Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's the matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on + de office you see de docteur.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “Hain!” said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. “Dat's + no docteur for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He + know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, + fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up + de cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come + on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose + seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!” + </p> + <p> + The smile broadened on Fahey's face. “I say, Maclennan, he's + captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure.” + </p> + <p> + The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and + passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey + in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence + and backed him out into the office. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan,” he said, “he's asleep and + must not be disturbed.” + </p> + <p> + Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold “How are you,” and + introduced him to Mr. Fahey. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Craigin ill?” inquired Fahey innocently. + </p> + <p> + “He has met with a slight accident,” replied the doctor. + “He is doing well and will be about in a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Accident?” snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for + a speech he began in a loud tone, “Dr. Bailey, I must say—” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” said the doctor, opening the office door and + marshalling them outside, “we'd better go somewhere else if we are + going to talk. It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly + quiet.” The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same + time so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking meekly toward the + grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader + than ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the + face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner he found it difficult to + rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in bluster. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, Dr. Bailey,” he burst forth when once they were + inside the grub-house, “it seems to me that you have carried things + on with a high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, + you head a mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with + absolutely no authority from anyone. What in the blank, blank do you mean, + anyway?” Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length + taking fire. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maclennan,” said the doctor quietly, “it is natural + you should be angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final + judgment. A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. + Diphtheria. I learned there were others suffering here with the same + disease. I came in at once to offer assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. + We came to a practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin + objected. There was some trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey,” said the General Manager, “it will save + trouble if you will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact + statement of what occurred.” The authoritative tone drew Dr. + Bailey's attention to the rugged face of the speaker, with its square + forehead and bull-dog jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with + a man of more than ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact + statement of all that had happened, beginning with the death of Scotty + Anderson. + </p> + <p> + “That is all, gentlemen,” said the doctor, as he concluded his + tale; “I did what I considered was right. Prompt action was + necessary. I may have been mistaken, but I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Mistaken!” cried Fahey, with a great oath. “I tell you, + Maclennan, we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that one + man's death, but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the + condition in which the doctor says they were, the results would have been + not only deplorable as far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us + with the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, + I am proud to meet you,” continued Fahey, putting out his hand. + “You had a most difficult situation to deal with and you handled it + like a general.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree with you,” said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey + warmly by the hand. “The measures were somewhat drastic, but + something had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet + again we'll send him out.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would + suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his + force.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, we'll see, we'll see.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be + busy just now and will excuse us.” + </p> + <p> + The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. Bailey + his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the sick. + Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. Bailey + seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon the theme + which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his mind. + </p> + <p> + “These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance—every + one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In + location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the + treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious + folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that + prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring you + will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention of Canada. + Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a magnificent site + five hundred yards away,” pointing to a little plateau further up + the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. “Then + look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which the men + can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are + alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all sorts of smells. + At a very little more cost you could have had a camp here pleasant, safe, + clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! they + might at least have kept the vermin out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw!” said Fahey, “every camp has to have a few + of them fellows. Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely + drive them out.” + </p> + <p> + “Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean + of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay,” + continued the doctor. “You would keep your men in good condition, in + good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay with + you. Besides, it would prevent scandal.” + </p> + <p> + “Scandal?” The General Manager looked up sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down + the line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all + over the East in a few weeks.” + </p> + <p> + The General Manager was thinking hard. “Look here, young man,” + he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, “do you + drink?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you gamble?” + </p> + <p> + “When I've nothing to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” said Mr. Fahey, “a little poker doesn't hurt + a man now and then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will + consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of + this line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not + much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't answer + just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I don't care.” + </p> + <p> + For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. + “I didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But + you can look at it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it + again with more care. + </p> + <p> + “You know Sir William?” + </p> + <p> + “Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London.” + </p> + <p> + “This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood + very high in the profession in London.” + </p> + <p> + “I had a fairly good position,” said Dr. Bailey. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why you left?” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Bailey hesitated. “I grew tired of the life—and, besides—well—I + wanted to get away from things and people.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon my asking,” said Fahey hastily. “It was none of + my business. But, Doctor—” here he glanced at the letter + again, “Bailey, you say your name is?” + </p> + <p> + “They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir,” replied Fahey quickly, “Bailey let it + be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man + of your standing for less.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to + forget. When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help + jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so + much. It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but + on the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything.” + </p> + <p> + “By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine,” said Fahey, with + a laugh, “so we may as well put it in the contract. In your + department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you + don't see it, we will get it for you.” + </p> + <p> + On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with + Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, “I + believe it was a put-up job with Tommy.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a blank lie!” roared Craigin. “I have it from + Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing + for me it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever + walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head + like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here + attending to his business?” + </p> + <p> + “Craigin,” he said quietly, “let me look at that. Ah, + it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better.” + </p> + <p> + Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in + his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and + induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment. + </p> + <p> + “There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now + you must be kept quiet.” As he said this he motioned them out of the + room. As he was leaving, Craigin called him back. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Maclennan,” he said gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin,” replied the doctor, in + soothing tones. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see him now.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back. + </p> + <p> + “Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these + mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a + murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky + shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I + want the doctor here not to lay it up against me.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Craigin,” said Maclennan, “I'm glad to hear + you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the + bedside. “Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend.” + </p> + <p> + That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving + Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been for + some days. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <h3> + THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + </h3> + <p> + Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at + the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as a + member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the + occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was + under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, but it was + due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Macdougall. It + was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which + had come into existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. “We + want as matron,” Dick had written, “a strong, sane woman who + knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery + in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she is + the better.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheery in manner and brave in heart?” Mrs. Macdougall had + said to herself, looking at the letter. “The very one! She is that + and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even + for Mr. Dick.” Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of + deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. + “No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but—” + Not even to herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady + breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment. + </p> + <p> + With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult + Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever “Barney's + mother.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a very fine work,” said Mrs. Boyle, “but + oh, lassie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that + knew you!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Dick is not very far away.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the + travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should + happen to you, and no one to care for you?” + </p> + <p> + The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during + the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going + from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son, she + had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender + showed deep upon her face. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?” said + Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. “There's one of + the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, + an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' + things begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en + me an' Barney an' Dick—” + </p> + <p> + “Och! Ben lad,” said Mrs. Boyle, “Margaret will be + hearing that story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an + hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look + after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, that she does,” remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis + that Margaret flushed as she cried, “Not I! My business is to look + after other people.” + </p> + <p> + But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that + Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do + better than take Ben along to “look after her,” as he put it. + Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's + Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only + to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. And + indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and + patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on errands + of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid + movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of + joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the + clumsiness of the other leg in comparison. + </p> + <p> + “W'en it comes to legs,” Ben would say, “this 'ere's the + machine fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the + toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below.” + </p> + <p> + As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious + appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The + institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an + object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood + unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the + matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love + amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and + to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In fact, the + Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a + sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces. + </p> + <p> + It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's + foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a + serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which + Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already + overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an + assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy + began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible + love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben + Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the + tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover + Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to be the honour of + the hospital and all things and persons associated therewith. As to the + matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among + his saints, and Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee + than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's + expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In + regard to the young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat + important part of the institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as + to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion + the superior methods of those down the line. + </p> + <p> + It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually + vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the + Kuskinook hospital and its belongings. + </p> + <p> + “It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't + have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the + thrick, so they do.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess they're all right fer simple cases,” agreed Ben, + “but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at + yerself!” + </p> + <p> + “Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a + notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer + ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! + There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the + mountains!” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?” inquired Ben, + with fine scorn. + </p> + <p> + “Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' + whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him + alive, an' so I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate,” said Ben, with + studied, politeness, “that no doctor can never compare with a + preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he + done,” displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. “But + what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give + me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the + man fer me!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the + same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the railway?” + </p> + <p> + “I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general,” + replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, “but I'm talkin' about + this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle.” Ben's attention to + the finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. + “An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain + 'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, + Esquire.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, + “I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two + churches up the Windermere which—” + </p> + <p> + “Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a + man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show + their hats?” + </p> + <p> + “As I was sayin',” continued Ben, “there's two churches + up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes + by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you”—here + Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, + pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's + face—“I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere + hinstitution!” And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full + magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy + was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or + her opinions was impossible to him. + </p> + <p> + “An' what's more,” continued Ben, “this 'ere + hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer + that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer + yeh!” And still Tommy remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' + Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, + an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They + wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' + the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. + An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the + docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's w'at I 'ear,” conceded Ben. “But e'll soak + 'em good at poker.” + </p> + <p> + “Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin,” said Tommy + enthusiastically. “An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses + to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! + An' luk at the 'rid lights'—” + </p> + <p> + “'Red lights'?” interrupted Ben. “Now ye're talkin'. Who + cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Who did, thin?” + </p> + <p> + “Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, + beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his + rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's + violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' + the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole + blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the + jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the + docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor + av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last + year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.” + </p> + <p> + “My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried + Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking. + </p> + <p> + “Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a + batin'!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben + scornfully, “but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to + haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher—” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor + yonder's worth—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with + a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections + thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' + jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's + voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the + 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution—” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the + Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand—Howly Moses! here + she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably + well to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and + cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said + the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's + better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on + like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to + blarney.” + </p> + <p> + “Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, + for I haven't the strength to do that same.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. + Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his + horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in + preparing my annual report.” + </p> + <p> + “Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git + out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him + good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.” + </p> + <p> + And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's + inability to take thought for herself. + </p> + <p> + The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there + stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied + loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas fir + one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with + misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side + climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the + sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like + fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new railway + gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River + gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest-clad + and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress. + </p> + <p> + For some moments Dick stood gazing. “Of all views I see, this is the + best,” he said. “Day or night I can get it clear as I see it + now, and it always brings me rest and comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “Rest and comfort?” echoed Margaret, coming to his side. + “Yes, I understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But + at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with + its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” replied Dick, slowly. “Barney used to + say the same about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the + Mill.” + </p> + <p> + Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each + was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the + name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the + thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with + every deeper throb. + </p> + <p> + “Come, this won't do,” said Margaret, almost sharply. + </p> + <p> + “No, it won't do,” replied Dick, each reading the thought in + the other's heart. + </p> + <p> + “I am struggling with my report,” said Margaret in a + business-like tone. “What shall I say? How shall I begin?” + </p> + <p> + “Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that + will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily + Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of + maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and + hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Dick,” said Margaret softly. “You are forgetting + the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for + the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his + own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings + to them till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the + hospital cannot cure.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part + of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts + and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook + any time they happen to be saying their prayers.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?” + </p> + <p> + “Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many—” + </p> + <p> + “What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have + been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps + upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established + hospitals, and all that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Got what?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. + Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so?” replied Dick, laughing. “Well, there are + some who have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or + rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill + him.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet they say he is—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. + But he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big + fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The + Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was + fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd leave + the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British army in + India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, one of them + an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These people were + their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to write to the + Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining the Church. + Well, you remember the big meeting called to protest against this vice? + The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the 'Liberal' + side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying up the line. + It looked for a complete knockout for me. In came Dr. Bailey, waited till + they were all through their talk, and then went for them. He didn't speak + more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he crumpled them up + utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor of The Pioneer, I + understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by turns. The crowd + simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with the men. They + passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. Quite true, the + doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and stayed at it all + night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all the more because I am + told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' and his gang. Oh, it was a fine bit + of work. I've often wished to meet him, but he's a hard man to find. He + must be a good sort at bottom.” + </p> + <p> + “To hear Tommy talk,” replied Margaret, “you would make + up your mind he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his + ways and doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their + luck. Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the + comparative merits of the doctor and yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough,” said Dick + earnestly, “that you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me + feel safer to think that he is here.” + </p> + <p> + “Ben will agree with you,” replied Margaret, “I assure + you. He assumes full care of me and of the whole institution.” + </p> + <p> + “Good boy, Ben,” said Dick, heartily. “And he is a kind + of link to that old home and—with the past, the beautiful past, the + past I like to think of.” The shadows were creeping up on Dick's + face, deepening its lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and + unrest. + </p> + <p> + “A beautiful past it was,” replied Margaret gently. “We + ought to be thankful that we have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything?” inquired Dick. + </p> + <p> + “No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after + her arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know where he + had gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no + word since.” + </p> + <p> + Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Dick, boy,” said Margaret, laying her hand upon + his head as if he had been a child, “it will all come right some + day.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't stand it, Margaret!” groaned Dick, “I shut it + out from me for weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my + cursed folly that wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, + for all I know, and mine!” + </p> + <p> + “You must not say wrecked,” replied Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would + say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing left in this + that can atone!” + </p> + <p> + “That, too, you must not say, Dick,” said Margaret. “God + has something yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has given. + The best is always before us. Besides,” she continued eagerly, + “He has given you all this work to do, this beautiful work.” + </p> + <p> + The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. “Yes, yes, I must not + forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to work. What + else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help the + heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word of + anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of sight. He pulled + me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not for + myself. If there were only one word to know he was doing well, was safe!” + He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. “Margaret, + do you think God will give me this?” His voice was hoarse with the + intensity of his passion. “Do you know, I sometimes feel that I + don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, + honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me if + only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for you, + Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my love of my Lord, I'd + give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful night and not + a word! It eats and eats and eats into me here,” he smote himself + hard over his heart, “till the actual physical pain is at times more + than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?” he continued, his + face quivering piteously. “Every time I think of God I think of + Barney. Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is + Barney I am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it + long? Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take away the + pain? Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Dick!” said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief + she understood only too well. “Hush! You must not doubt God. God + forgives and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain + as soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give + him back to us. I feel it here.” She laid her hand upon her heaving + breast. + </p> + <p> + For some moments Dick was silent. “Perhaps so,” he said at + length. “For your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he + will.” + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said Margaret, “let us go out into the open air, + into God's sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and + see the Goat cavort.” She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At + the door she met Ben. “I won't be gone long, Ben,” she + explained. + </p> + <p> + “Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret,” replied Ben + graciously. “An' the longer yeh stay the better fer the + hinstitution.” + </p> + <p> + “That's an extremely doubtful compliment,” laughed Margaret, + as they passed down the winding path that made its way through the tall + red pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of + rock that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself with + her back against the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while at her + feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that threw + great clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet + May day. All the scents and sounds of spring filled up the fragrant spaces + of the woods. Far up through the great feathering branches gleamed patches + of blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared with the clean + red trunks of the pine trees wrought in network pattern. At their feet + raged the Goat, foaming out his futile fury at the unmoved black rocks. Up + the rocky sides from the water's edge, bravely clinging to nook and + cranny, running along ledges, hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly + climbing up to the forest, were all spring's myriad tender things + wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's ugliness. From the river below + came gusts of misty wind, waves of sound of the water's many voices. It + was a spot where Nature's kindly ministries got about the spirit, healing, + soothing, resting. + </p> + <p> + With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches wave + about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods around and + from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed from his heart + and he grew strong and ready for the road again. + </p> + <p> + “You don't know how good this is, Margaret,” he said, “all + this about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you + oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. + Oh, Margaret! if only you could let me hope that some day—” + </p> + <p> + “Look, Dick!” she cried, springing to her feet, “there's + the train.” + </p> + <p> + It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like some + great jointed reptile through the woods below. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Margaret,” continued Dick, “is it quite + impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick!” cried the girl, her face full of pain, “don't + ask me!” + </p> + <p> + “Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?” + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands above her heart. “Dick,” she cried + piteously, “I can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While + Barney lives I could not be true and be another's wife.” + </p> + <p> + “While Barney lives!” echoed Dick blankly. “Then God + grant you may never be mine!” He stood straight for a moment, then + with a shake of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the + path. “Come, let us go,” he said. “There will be letters + and I must get to work.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick dear,” said Margaret, her voice full of tender + pity, “there's always our work, thank God!” + </p> + <p> + Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was to + them, as to many others, God's salvation. + </p> + <p> + There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but one + among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from Iola. She caught + it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was not + mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of her + season's triumph with Wagner. “It has been a great, a glorious + experience,” wrote Iola. “I cannot be far from the top now. + The critics actually classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was + glorious. But I am tired out. The doctors say there is something wrong, + but I think it is only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing + for a year, but I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I want you, + Margaret, and I want—oh, fool that I was!—I may as well out + with it—I want Barney. I have no shame at all. If I knew where to + find him I would ask him to come. But he would not. He loathes me, I know. + If I were only with you at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be + strong. Sometimes I am afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I + think that is it. I am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is + the best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, + this letter has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is + sore. But I must let it go.” The tears were streaming down + Margaret's face as she read. + </p> + <p> + “Read it, Dick,” she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into + his hands. + </p> + <p> + Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, where is he?” cried Margaret, wringing her hands. “If + we only knew!” + </p> + <p> + “The date is a month old,” said Dick. “I think one of us + must go. You must go, Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dick, it must be you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go.” + </p> + <p> + “For Barney's sake,” said Dick, with a sob in his throat. + “Yes, I'll go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in + the Big Horn Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! + if I could only bring her back for him, dear old boy! God give me this!” + </p> + <p> + “Amen,” said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and + dies hard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <h3> + UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + </h3> + <p> + The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country + into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over high mountain + shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who knew + the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the canyon. True + enough, there were a number of lift-outs and two rather long portages that + made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had skill with the paddle and + knew the water he might avoid these by running the rapids. Men from the + Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, like all true canoemen, + hated to portage and loved to take the risk of the rapids. Though the + current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not so difficult as one might + imagine; that is, if the canoeman happened to know how to take advantage + of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet water by the banks, how to put + the nose of his canoe into the swift water and to hold her so that, as + Duprez, the keeper of the stopping place at the Landing, said, “She + would walk on de rapide toute suite lak one oiseau.” + </p> + <p> + There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big Horn, and + Dr. Bailey had been urgently summoned. The upper camp lay on the other + side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more from the steel. The lake + itself was six miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at least twice + that. Hence, though there would be some stiff paddling in the trip, the + doctor did not hesitate in his choice of route. He knew his canoe and + loved every rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the woodsman's + trick of going light. A blanket, a tea pail which held his grub, + consisting of some Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a little tea + and sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so that he could + make the portages in a single carry. Many a mile had he gone, thus + equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up and down these + valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the railroad, lumber, + and tie camps, and more recently in the new-planted mining towns. + </p> + <p> + It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would help him in + his fight with the current and coming down it would be glorious. The sun + was just appearing over the row of pines that topped the low mountain + range to the east when he packed his kit and blankets under the gunwale in + the bow and slipped his canoe into the water. He was about to step in when + a voice he had not heard for many days arrested him. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday? He + was—By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!” + </p> + <p> + It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift + steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked him + swiftly apart. + </p> + <p> + “Ben,” he said, in a low, stern voice, “not a word. I + once did you a good turn?” + </p> + <p> + Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech. + </p> + <p> + “Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know now.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but Miss Margaret and Dick—” gasped Ben. + </p> + <p> + “They don't know,” interrupted the doctor, “and must not + know. Will you promise me this, Ben?” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, Barney! I don't—I don't think—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, by the livin'—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old + days.” The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl. + </p> + <p> + “You bet, Bar—Doctor!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above the + falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat. + </p> + <p> + “Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!” sang out Duprez. “You + cache hup de preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Who?” + </p> + <p> + “De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp + on de Beeg Fall, s'pose.” + </p> + <p> + Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. “Went up last night, did + he?” + </p> + <p> + “Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send + for M'sieu Boyle.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he go up alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe.” + </p> + <p> + It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should + fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at all costs, he + was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his canoe, + calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve. He must + visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own ingenuity to avoid + the meeting he dreaded. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Duprez! bon jour.” + </p> + <p> + “Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' + de portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her.” + </p> + <p> + “Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur,” answered Duprez, shrugging + his shoulders. “Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry about me,” cried the doctor. “Just watch me + take this little riffle.” + </p> + <p> + “Bien!” cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the + eddy and, with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point + where the stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to + the falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra + weight on his paddle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigilance + which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the + cause, when the swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his strength + and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream and going down the + rapids. + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one + foot to the other. “A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come + out on de heddy!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the + frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy and + gradually edged her into the quiet water. + </p> + <p> + “You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!” cried Duprez, as + the doctor paddled slowly up the edge past him. “You bes' pass on de + portage. Not many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the thing before + and he was not to be beaten now. As the eddy bore him toward the swift + water again he carefully gauged the angle of attack, so that when the nose + of the canoe entered the riffle, with the trick that all canoemen know, he + held her up firm against the water, and, with no very great effort, but by + skilful manipulations of the force of the current, he shoved her gradually + across the riffle into the slow water near the farther bank, and with a + triumphant wave of the paddle disappeared around the bend. + </p> + <p> + “He's good man,” said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all + this time to recover from the shock of Barney's sudden appearance. “But + de preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night.” + </p> + <p> + “Did, eh?” answered Ben. “Well, he didn't put in three + summers on the Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the canoe, an' so's his + bro—that is—the doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!” + Ben was much excited. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for sure!” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, taking + advantage of every eddy and cross current, stealing along the bank under + the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting his canoe over + rocky bits, till near mid-day he found himself at the portage below the + Long Rapid. + </p> + <p> + “Guess I'll camp on the other side,” he said, talking aloud + after the manner of men who live much alone. He adjusted his paddles on + the thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, and, + taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the half mile portage without a + “set down.” + </p> + <p> + “There,” he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, + “my legs are better than my arms. Now we'll grub.” He unpacked + his tea pail, cut his bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a + fire, drew a pail of water, threw in a handful of tea, swung it by a + poplar sapling over the fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. In fifteen + minutes his meal was ready—such a meal as can be had only in the + mountains under the open sky and at the end of a ten-mile paddle against + the stream of the Big Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched + himself in the warm spring sun for half an hour's quiet think. The old + restlessness was coming back upon him. His work as Medical Superintendent + of the railway construction was practically completed. The medical + department was thoroughly organized and the fight with disease and dirt + was pretty much over so far as he was concerned. And with the easing of + the strain there came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the + last three years driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his + professional honour demanded that he should hold his post and do his work, + he had long ago left a district where he was kept constantly in mind of + what he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the exercise of the most + assiduous care he had prevented a meeting with his brother during the last + three months. But in this he could not hope to be successful much longer. + Before his second pipe was smoked he had reached his resolve. “I'll + pull out of this,” he said, “once this Big Horn camp is + cleaned up.” + </p> + <p> + He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a right + woodsman, slipped his canoe into the water, and set off again. His meeting + with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother near him + to-day. Everything was eloquent of those days they had spent together on + the upper reaches of the Ottawa. The flowing river, the open sky, the + wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping canoe spoke to him of + Dick. The fierce resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that had been as a + festering in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day to have lost + their stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with every deep breath + of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the canoe, the buoyant + gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling into his heart, and ere + he knew he caught himself singing, to the rhythmic swing of paddle and + shoulders, the old Habitant canoe song: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En roulant ma boule roulant.” + </pre> + <p> + As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he + sternly check himself and resolutely set another air going in his head, + only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to the old song + to which he and his brother had so often made their canoe slip in those + great days that now seemed so far away. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En roulant ma boule,” + </pre> + <p> + sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's clear + tenor from the bow. “Here, confound it! Quit it, I say!” he + said aloud savagely. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En roulant ma boule roulant,” + </pre> + <p> + in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. The doctor + almost dropped his paddle into the stream. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens above!” he muttered. “What's that? Who's that?” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Visa la noir, tua le blanc, + Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant,” + </pre> + <p> + sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just that + way. With two swift heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe into the + overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled his canoe up the + bank after him. Down the river still came the song, and ever nearer. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O fils du roi tu es mechant, + En roulant ma boule.” + </pre> + <p> + The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to the bank + came the canoe, the singer sitting in the stern, his hat off and his face + showing brown against the fair hair. How strong he looked and how + handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride in his brother's good + looks. Yes, he was handsome as ever, and yet he was different. “He's + older, that's it,” said the man in the bushes, breathing hard. No, + it was not that altogether. There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon + the face. All at once the song ceased abruptly. The paddle was laid down + and the canoe allowed to drift. The current carried her still nearer the + shore. Every line in the face could now be seen. The man peering out + through the bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in + that grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument of + grief. The change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply the + gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and something else. This was + the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of the face and in its + place sadness, almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, sad face + was turned, but the eyes were fixed with unseeing gaze upon the flowing + water. The canoe was now almost abreast the hiding place in the bushes and + still drifting. Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his face toward + the sky, cried out, “I'll bring her back, please God, and I'll find + him, too!” The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped under his + hand. He threw himself face down and gripped his hands hard into the moss + as if to hold himself there. “A deer, I guess, but I must get on,” + he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, looking out through + the bushes, he saw the swaying figure of the man he most longed and most + dreaded to see of all men in the world fast disappearing from his view. + Twice he raised his hands to his lips to call after him, but even as he + did so a vision held his voice, the vision of a room in a city far away, + the girl he loved, and this man pressing hot kisses on her face. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, + “let him go.” But still with straining eyes he gazed after the + swaying figure till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he + sank down on the deep moss bank with the air of a man who has just passed + through a heavy fight. + </p> + <p> + The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The brightness + had gone out of the light, the sweetness out of the air. A burning pain + filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old sore, which his work + for the sick and wounded had helped to heal over, had been torn open + afresh, and the first agony of it was upon him again. He arrived at the + upper camp late at night and weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled on in + his fight with the typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the day, + then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set off down the Big Horn, resolved + that ere a week had passed he would seek in some far land the forgetting + which here was impossible to him. + </p> + <p> + Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without awakening any + rhythmic song in his heart. It was a heavy grind to be got through with as + soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the canoe failed to quicken + his heart a single beat. It was still early in the forenoon when he + reached the Long Rapid. It was a dangerous bit of water, but without a + moment's considering he stood upright in his canoe and, casting a quick + glance down the boiling slope, he made his choice of passage. Then getting + on his knees he braced them firmly against the sides of his canoe and + before he was well ready found himself in the smooth, steep pitch at the + crest of that seething incline of plunging water. Two long swallowlike + swoops, then a mad plunging through a succession of buffeting, curling + waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed through, a great heave or + two over the humping billows at the foot, then the swirl of the eddy + caught him, and lifted him clear over into the quiet water. One minute of + wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left behind. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't take that quite right,” he grumbled. “Ought to + have lifted her sooner. Next time I'll get through dry. Next time?” + he repeated. “God knows if there'll ever be any next time of that + water for me.” He paddled round the eddy toward the shore, intending + to dump the water out of his canoe. “Hello! What in thunder is that?” + Up against the driftwood, where it had been carried by the eddy, a canoe + was floating bottom upwards. “God help us!” he groaned. + “It's his canoe! My God! My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd + run these rapids. That's his style. Oh, why didn't I call him? We could + have done it together safe enough!” He stood up in his canoe and + searched eagerly among the driftwood. “Dick! Dick!” he called + over and over again in the wild cry of a wounded man. He paddled over to + the canoe and examined it. “Ah, that's where he hit the rocks, just + at the foot. But he shouldn't drown here,” he continued, “unless + they hit him. Let's see, where would that eddy take him?” For + another anxious minute he stood observing the run of the water. “If + he could keep up three minutes,” he said, “he ought to strike + that bar.” With a few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand bar. + “Ha!” he cried. A paddle lay on the sand just above the water + mark. “That never floated there.” He leaped out and drew up + his canoe, then, dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the + bar. There on the sand was stamped the print of an open hand. “Now, + God be thanked!” he cried, lifting his hands toward the sky, “he's + reached this spot. He's somewhere on shore here.” Like a dog on + scent he followed up the marks to the edge of the forest where the bank + rose steeply over rough rocks. Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the + alert for any sign. He reached the top. A quick glance he threw around + him, then with a low cry he rushed forward. There, stretched prone on the + moss, a little pile of brushwood near him, with his match case in his + hand, lay his brother. “Oh, Dick, boy!” he cried aloud, + “not too late, surely!” He dropped beside the still form, + turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his heart. “Too late! + Too late!” he groaned. Like a madman he rushed out of the woods, + flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his canoe, seized his bag and + scrambled back again. Again, and more carefully, he felt for the + heartbeat. He thought he could detect a feeble flutter. Hurriedly he + seized his flask and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured a few drops of + the whiskey down the throat. But there was no attempt to swallow. “We'll + try it this way.” With swift fingers he filled his syringe with the + whiskey and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited with his hand upon + the feebly fluttering heart. “My God! it's coming, I do believe!” + he cried. “Now a little strychnine,” he whispered. “There, + that ought to help.” + </p> + <p> + Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and blanket. + In five minutes he had a fire going and his tea pail swung over it with a + little more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes more he had half + a cup of hot tea ready. By this time the heartbeat could be detected every + moment growing stronger. Into the tea he poured a little of the stimulant. + “If I can only get this down,” he muttered, chafing at the + limp hands. Once more he lifted the head, pried open the shut jaws, and + tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down. After repeated attempts he + succeeded. Then for the first time he observed that his hands were covered + with blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining the back of it, + detected a great jagged wound. “Looks bad, bad.” He felt the + bone carefully and shook his head. “Fracture, I fear.” Heating + some more water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he + spent in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing every + precious moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to + come slowly back. “Now I must get him to the hospital.” + </p> + <p> + There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and there + were no portages. With swift despatch he cut a large armful of balsam + boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his canoe, cutting + out the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and picking his steps + with great care, he carried him to the canoe and laid him upon the balsam + boughs on his right side. The moment the weight came upon that side a + groan burst from the pallid lips. “Something wrong there,” + muttered the doctor, turning him slightly over. “Ah, shoulder out. + I'll just settle this right now.” By dexterous manipulation the + dislocation was reduced, and at once the patient sank down upon the bed of + boughs and lay quite still. A little further stimulation brought back the + heart to a steadier beat. “Now, my boy,” he said to himself, + as he took his place kneeling in the stern of the canoe, “give her + every ounce you have.” For half an hour without pause, except twice + to give his patient stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body + kept their rhythmic swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe and in + a minute more was at the Landing. + </p> + <p> + “Duprez! Here, quick!” The doctor stood in the door of the + stopping place, wet as if he had come from the river, his voice raucous + and his face white. + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Frenchman, “what de mattaire?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor swept a glance about the room. “Sick man,” he said + briefly. “I want this bed. Get your buckboard, quick.” He + seized the bed and carried it out before the eyes of the astonished + Duprez. + </p> + <p> + Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time the bed + had been arranged on the buckboard he had his horse between the shafts. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, Duprez, give me a hand,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Certainment. Bon Dieu! Dat's de bon preechere! Not dead, heh?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face + while he placed his fingers upon the pulse. “No. Now get on. Drive + carefully, but make time.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, which was + well graded and smooth. Duprez sent along his pony at a lope and in a + short space of time they reached the door of the hospital, where they were + met by Orderly Ben Fallows on duty. + </p> + <p> + “Barney! By the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!” cried Ben. + “What on earth—” + </p> + <p> + But the doctor cut him short. “Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get a + bed ready with warm blankets and hot water bottles. Go, man! Don't gape + there!” + </p> + <p> + Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up the + stair as fast as his wooden leg would allow him. He reached the office + door. “Miss Margaret,” he gasped, “Barney's at the door + with a sick man. Wants a bed ready. We 'aven't got one—and—” + </p> + <p> + The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words. “Barney?” + she said, rising slowly to her feet. “Barney?” she said again, + her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. “What do you mean, + Ben?” The words came slowly. + </p> + <p> + “He wants a bed for a sick man and we 'aven't—” + </p> + <p> + Margaret took a step toward him. “Ben,” she said, in + breathless haste, “get my room ready. But first tell Nurse Crane to + come to me quick. Go, Ben.” + </p> + <p> + The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands she shut + the door, turned toward her desk, and there stood, both hands pressed hard + to her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous tides that surged + through her heart and thundered in her ears. “Barney! Barney!” + she whispered. “Oh, Barney, at last!” The blue eyes were wide + open and all aglow with the tender light of her great love. “Barney,” + she said over and over, “my love, my love, my—ah, not mine—” + A sob caught her voice. Over her desk hung a copy of Hoffman's great + picture, the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. + “O Christ!” she cried brokenly, “I, too! Help me!” + A knock came to the door, Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned + toward her desk again. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient,” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Bailey?” echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her + trembling hands fluttering among the papers on the desk. “Go to him, + Nurse, and get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the Christ, + the words of the great submission ringing through the chambers of her + soul. “Not my will but Thine be done.” She pressed nearer the + picture, gazing into that strong, patient, suffering face through the rain + of welcome tears. “O Christ!” she whispered, “dear + blessed Christ! I understand—now. Help me! Help me!” Then, + after a pause, “Not my will! Not my will!” + </p> + <p> + The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood in the + corner of her office, bathed her eyes, smoothed away the signs of struggle + from her face, and went forth serene to her duty and her cross. In the + hall she met Barney. With a quick, light step she was at his side, both + hands stretched out. “Barney!” “Margaret!” was all + they said. For a moment or two Barney stood holding her hands, gazing + without a word into the sweet face, so pale, so beautiful, so serenely + strong. Twice he essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat. + Turning abruptly away he pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on + the camp bed. + </p> + <p> + “I've brought—you—Dick,” at last he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Dick! Hurt? Not—” She halted before the dreaded word. + </p> + <p> + “No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope—” + </p> + <p> + “The room is ready,” said Nurse Crane. + </p> + <p> + At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate demands + of their common duty. They had work to do, and they had trained themselves + to obey without thought of self that Divine call to serve the suffering. + Together they toiled at their work, Margaret noting with delighted wonder + the quick fingers and the finished skill that cleansed and probed and + dressed the wound in the head and made thorough examination for other + injury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the efficiency of the silent, + steady helper at his side whose quick eye and hand anticipated his every + want. At length their work was done and they stood looking down upon the + haggard face. + </p> + <p> + “He is resting now,” said Barney, in a low voice. “The + fracture is not serious, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Dick,” said Margaret, passing her hand over his brow. + </p> + <p> + At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney quickly + stepped back out of sight. For a moment or two the eyes wandered about the + room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, inquiring gaze. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Dick, dear?” said Margaret, bending over him. + </p> + <p> + For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if seeking + something. + </p> + <p> + “I know. The letter, Dick?” A look of intelligence lighted the + eye. “That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to Barney. Barney is + here, you know.” + </p> + <p> + A hand grasped her arm. “Hush!” said Barney in stern command. + “Say nothing about me.” But she heeded him not. For a moment + longer the sick man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of content + overspread the drawn features, then the look of intelligence faded and the + eyes closed wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said Barney, moving toward the door, “he is + better quiet.” + </p> + <p> + Leaving the nurse in charge, they went together toward the office. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you find him?” asked Margaret as she gave Barney a + seat. Then Barney told her the story of how he had chanced upon the canoe + and had discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods. + </p> + <p> + “It was God's leading, Barney,” said Margaret gently, when the + story was done; but to this he made no reply. “Is there serious + danger, do you think?” she inquired in an anxious voice. + </p> + <p> + “He will recover,” replied Barney. “All he requires is + careful nursing, and that you can give him. I shall wait till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow? And then?” + </p> + <p> + “I am leaving this country next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Leaving the country? And why?” + </p> + <p> + “My work here is done.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely there is much yet to do, and you have just begun to do such + great things. Why should you leave now?” + </p> + <p> + Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pondering an answer. “Margaret, + I must go,” he finally burst forth. “You know I must go. I + can't live within touch of him and forget!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive, you mean, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, forgive, if you like,” he replied sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Barney,” replied Margaret earnestly, “this is unworthy + of you, and in the face of God's mercy to-day how can you hold resentment + in your heart?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three years I have fought + it, but it is there. It is there!” He struck his hand hard upon his + breast. “I can't forget that he ruined my life! But for him I + believe in my soul I should have won—her to me! At a critical moment + he came in and ruined—” + </p> + <p> + “Barney! Barney, listen to me!” cried Margaret impetuously. + </p> + <p> + Barney sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “No, you must listen to me. Sit down.” Barney obeyed her word + and sat down. “Now, hear me, and hear me fairly. I am not going to + say that Dick was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was the + greater I can't tell. They were both young and, to a certain extent, + inexperienced in the ways of life. Circumstances threw them much together + and on terms of almost brotherly and sisterly intimacy. That was a + mistake. They ignored conventions that can never be safely ignored. Just + at that time Dick's life was made hard for him. His Church had rejected + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Rejected him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was + branded as a heretic and outcast from work.” Margaret's voice grew + bitter. “Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not + help it—I can't say—but he grew hard. Yes, and worse than + that, grew away from his faith, from his friends, and from those things + that keep men straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation + came upon him. You and I have seen enough of that side of life to know + what that means. He broke faith with you—no, not with you. He was + loyal to you, but he broke faith with himself and with her. For a single + moment, that moment at which you appeared, he yielded to passion, and + bitterly, terribly, has he suffered since that moment. How terribly no one + knows. He has tried to find you, but you would not be found. He wronged + you, Barney, but you have made him and all of us suffer much.” The + voice that had gone on so bravely and so firmly here suddenly trembled and + broke. + </p> + <p> + “Made you suffer!” cried Barney, with bitter scorn. “How + can you speak of suffering? You have everything! I have lost all!” + </p> + <p> + “Everything?” echoed Margaret faintly. “Ah, Barney, how + little you know! But, no matter, God has brought you together and you must + not do this wicked thing. You must not continue to break our hearts.” + </p> + <p> + “Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a + heart, too, and a brother whom I loved and trusted as myself, yes, more + than myself, and—I had—Iola. All I have lost. My work + satisfies me for a few months, but try as I can this awful thing hunts me + down and drives me mad. There is nothing in life left for me. And there + might have been much but for—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Barney!” cried Margaret impulsively. “There is + much still left for you. God is good. How much better than we. You can't + forgive a fellow-sinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, and + surely you ought to try—” + </p> + <p> + “Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't + tried? That thing is there! there!” smiting on his breast again. + “Can you tell me how to rid myself of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do + this for you. Listen,” she said, putting up her hand to stay his + words, “God is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to + soften you. Here, read this.” She handed him Iola's letter, went to + the window, and stood with her back to him, looking out upon the great + sweeping valley below. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret!” The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, + proud, sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His lips were quivering, his + hands trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. “Margaret,” + he cried brokenly, “what does this mean?” He was terribly + shaken. + </p> + <p> + “It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going + to-morrow to bring her back to you, Barney. That was his one desire.” + </p> + <p> + “To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old boy! + and I—Oh, Margaret!” He put his trembling hands out to her. + “Forgive me! God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!” He + started toward the door. “No, not how,” he cried, striving in + vain to control himself. “I am mad! mad! For three long years I have + carried this cursed thing in my heart! It's gone! It's gone, Margaret! Do + you hear? It's gone!” He was shouting aloud. “I feel right + toward Dick, my brother!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Barney dear,” said the girl, tears running down her + face, “you will wake him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” he cried, in an eager whisper, “I'll be + careful. Poor old boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick! And she wants + me! I'll go to-night! Yes, to-night! What's the date?” He tore at + the envelope with trembling hands. The letter dropped to the floor. + Margaret caught it up and opened it for him. “A month ago and more! + Yes, I'll go to-night. Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! I can't get + myself in hand.” Suddenly he threw himself into his chair. “Here!” + he ground out between his teeth, “get quiet!” He sat for a few + moments absolutely still, gathering strength to command himself. At length + he got himself in hand. “No,” he said in a quiet voice, + “I shall not go tonight. I shall wait till Dick is better. Just now + he must be kept quiet. In the morning I expect to see him very much + himself. We can only wait and see.” + </p> + <p> + Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold himself + in perfect control, Margaret quietly doing what was to be done, her whole + spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love which finds its highest joy + in the joy of another. At the break of day the nurse came to the door and + found them still waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss Robertson.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go to him,” cried Barney. “Don't fear.” + His voice was still vibrating, but his manner was calm and steady. He was + master of himself again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Margaret, “go to him.” Then as the + door closed she stood once more before the Gethsemane scene. “Thank + God, thank God,” she said softly, “for them the pain is over.” + </p> + <p> + For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She opened + the door softly, went in and stood gazing till her eyes grew dim. On the + pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, whose arm was thrown + about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of rapturous + peace. As Margaret moved to leave the room Dick called her in a voice + faint, but full of joy. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret,” he said, a smile breaking like light through a + dark cloud, “my head was broken, but I'd have all the bones in my + body broken, just to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, but radiant with a peace + it had not known for many a day. “Yes, old chap,” he said in a + voice still tremulous in spite of all his self-command, “we're right + again, and, please God, we'll keep so.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <h3> + TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + </h3> + <p> + For three days Dick made steady progress toward health, but his progress + was slow. Any mental effort produced severe pain in his head and sufficed + to raise his temperature several points. As he gained in strength and + became more and more clear in his thinking his anxiety in regard to his + work began to increase. His congregations would be waiting him on Sunday, + and he could not bear to think of their being disappointed. With no small + effort had he gathered them together, and a single failure on his part he + knew would have disastrous effect upon the attendance. He was especially + concerned about the service at Bull Crossing, which was at once the point + where the work was the most difficult, and, at the present juncture, most + encouraging. Under his instructions Barney sought to secure a substitute + for the service at Bull Crossing, but without result. Preachers were + scarce in that country and every preacher had more work in sight than he + could overtake. And so Dick fretted and wrought himself into a fever, + until the doctor took him sternly to task. + </p> + <p> + “I don't see that it's your business to worry, Dick,” he said. + “I suppose you consider yourself as working under orders, and it is + your belief, isn't it, that the One who gives the orders is the One who + has laid you down here?” + </p> + <p> + “That's true,” said Dick wearily, “but there's the + people. A lot of them come a long way. It's been hard to get them + together, and I hate to disappoint them.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll get someone,” replied Barney. “We're a + pretty hard combination to beat, aren't we, Margaret? There will be a man + to take the service at Bull Crossing if I have to take it myself—a + desperate resort, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not, Barney?” asked Dick. “You could do it well.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk a little with my + fingers, but my tongue is unconscionably slow.” + </p> + <p> + “There was a man once slow of speech,” replied Dick quietly, + “but he was given a message and he led a nation into freedom.” + </p> + <p> + Barney nodded. “I remember him. But he could do things.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Dick, “but he believed God could do + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so. That was rather long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “With God,” replied Dick earnestly, “there is no such + thing as long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same,” said Barney, “I guess these things don't + happen now.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe they happen,” replied his brother, “where God + finds a man who will take his life in his hand and go.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know about that,” replied Barney, “but I + do know that you must quit talking and sleep. Now, hear me, drop that + meeting out of your mind. I'll look after it.” + </p> + <p> + But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, he found + no one for the service at Bull Crossing next day. There was still a slight + hope that one of the officials of the congregation would consent to be a + stop-gap for the day. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret,” + said Barney laughingly. “Wouldn't the crowd stare? They'd hear the + sermon of their lives.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a good sermon, Barney,” replied Margaret quietly. + “And why should you not say something to the men?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Margaret!” cried Barney impatiently. “You + know the thing is utterly absurd. What sort of man am I to preach? A + gambler, a swearer, and generally bad. They all know me.” + </p> + <p> + “They know only a part of you, Barney,” said Margaret gently. + “God knows all of you, and whatever you have been you are no gambler + today, and you are not a bad man.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Barney slowly, “I am no gambler, nor will + I ever be again. But I have been a hard, bad man. For three years I + carried hate in my heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be + forgiven. And that, I believe, was the cause of all my badness. But—somehow—I + don't deserve it—but I've been awfully well treated. I deserved + hell, but I've got a promise of heaven. And I'd be glad to do something + for—” He paused abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “There, you've got your sermon, Barney,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “'Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'” + </p> + <p> + “It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me + to preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll get one of those fellows at the + Crossing to take the meeting.” + </p> + <p> + On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the subject. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not anxious, Barney,” he said, “but who's going to + take the meeting to-morrow night at Bull Crossing?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here,” said Barney, “Monday morning you'll + hear all about it. Meantime, don't ask questions. Margaret and I are + responsible, and that ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail.” + </p> + <p> + “No, nor you, Barney,” said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of + satisfaction. “I know it will be all right. Are you going down + to-morrow evening?” he inquired, turning to Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “I?” exclaimed Margaret. “What would I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good,” said + Barney. “You may have to preach yourself or hold my coat while I go + in.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, and the + quick following pallor told Dick the thoughts that rushed through + Margaret's heart. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Dick gravely, “you will go down, too, + Margaret. It will do you good, and I don't need you here.” + </p> + <p> + Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he found + himself so utterly blocked by unmanageable circumstances and + uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. He + confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in “Mexico's” + saloon toning up his system after his long illness, and whom he had + straightway carried off with him. + </p> + <p> + “I guess it's either you or me, Tommy.” + </p> + <p> + “Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an' divil a wan av the + bhoys will 'Mexico' git this night, wance the news gits about.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk rot, Tommy,” said Barney angrily, for the chance + of his being forced to take his brother's place, which all along had + seemed to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With the + energy of desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon visiting, + explaining, urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of the members or + adherents of the congregation at Bull Crossing in whom might be supposed + to dwell the faintest echo of the spirit of the preacher. One after + another, however, those upon whom he had built his hopes failed him. One + was out of town, another he found sick in bed, and a third refused point + blank to consider the request, so that within a few minutes of the hour of + service he found himself without a preacher and wholly desperate, and for + the first time he seriously faced the possibility of having to take the + service himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's + parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and abruptly announced to her + his failure. + </p> + <p> + “Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You know, + I can't,” he repeated, in answer to the look upon her face. “Why, + it was only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of hundred. He + would give a good deal more to get even. The crowd would hoot me out of + the building. Not that I care for that”—the long jaws came + hard together—“but it's just too ghastly to think of.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't so very terrible, Barney,” said Margaret, her voice + and eyes uniting in earnest persuasion. “You are not the man you + were last week. You know you are not. You are quite different, and you + will be different all your life. A great change has come to you. What made + the change? You know it was God's great mercy that took the bitterness out + of your heart and that changed everything. Can't you tell them this?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that? + What would they say?” + </p> + <p> + “Barney,” asked Margaret, “you are not afraid of them? + You are not ashamed to tell what you owe to God?” + </p> + <p> + Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not afraid, + but his native diffidence, intensified by these recent years of + self-repression and self-absorption, had made all speech difficult to him, + but more especially speech that revealed the deeper movements of his soul. + </p> + <p> + “No, Margaret, I'm not afraid,” he said slowly. “But I'd + rather have them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit than get up and + speak to them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Margaret? + How can I do that?” + </p> + <p> + “All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course,” she + replied. “But you will tell them just what you will.” + </p> + <p> + With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a + desperate fight. His word passed to his brother must be kept. But soon a + deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His sense of + loyalty was touched. He knew himself to be a different man from the man + who, last week, in “Mexico's” saloon, had beaten his old + antagonist at the old game. His consciousness of himself, of his life + purposes, of his outlook, of his deepest emotions, was altogether a + different consciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pursuing + restlessness was gone and, in its place, a deep peace possessed him. The + process by which this had been achieved he could not explain, but the + result was undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an influence the source + of which he frankly acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of + the beaten and confounded pagan magic-workers came to him, “This is + the finger of God.” He could not deny it. Why should he wish to hide + it? It became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, + that there was a demand being made upon him as a man of truth and honour, + and as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility of his + refusing the demand presented itself to his mind, there flashed in upon + him the picture of a man standing in the midst of enemies, the flickering + firelight showing his face vacillating, terror-stricken, hunted. From the + trembling lips of the man he heard the words of base denial, “I know + not the man,” and in his heart there rose a cry, “O Christ! + shall I do this?” “No,” came the answer, strong and + clear, from his lips, “I will not do this thing, so help me God.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. “You + won't?” she said faintly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take the service,” he replied, setting the long jaws + firmly together. And with that they went forth to the hall. + </p> + <p> + They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through Tommy + Tate it had been noised abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach. There were + wild rumors, too, that the doctor had “got religion,” although + “Mexico” and his friends scouted the idea as utterly + impossible. + </p> + <p> + “He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve,” was “Mexico's” + verdict, given with a full accompaniment of finished profanity. + </p> + <p> + Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound + impression and to awaken an expectation that rose to fever pitch when + Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took their + places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played himself, and + Barney at the table upon which were the Bible and the Hymn-book. His face + wore the impenetrable, death-like mark which had so often baffled “Mexico” + and his gang over the poker table. It fascinated “Mexico” now. + All the years of his wicked manhood “Mexico” had, on + principle, avoided anything in the shape of a religious meeting, but + to-day the attraction of a poker player preaching proved irresistible. It + was with no small surprise that the crowd saw “Mexico,” with + two or three of his gang, make their way toward the front to the only + seats left vacant. + </p> + <p> + When it became evident beyond dispute that his old-time enemy was to take + the preacher's place, “Mexico” leaned over to his pal, “Peachy” + Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in an undertone + audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, “It's his old game. + He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got the cards.” + </p> + <p> + But painful experience shook “Peachy's” confidence in his + friend's judgment on this particular point, and he only ventured to reply, + “He's got the lead.” “Peachy” preferred to await + developments. + </p> + <p> + The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fervour that marks the musical + part of any religious service in the West. But there was in the voices + that curious thrill that is at once the indication and the quickening of + intense excitement. + </p> + <p> + “This here'll show what's in his hand,” said “Peachy,” + when the moment for prayer arrived. “Peachy” was not + unfamiliar with religious services, and had, with unusual keenness of + observation, noted that when a man undertook to pray he must, if he be + true, reveal the soul within him. + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” grunted a dubious affirmative. But “Peachy” + was disappointed, for in a voice reverent, but unimpassioned, the preacher + for the day led the people's devotions, using the great words taught those + men long ago who knew not how to pray, “Our Father who art in + Heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Blanked if he ain't bluffed again! We've got to wait till he begins + to shoot, I guess,” said “Peachy,” mixing his figures. + </p> + <p> + The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving debtor and the parallel + passage containing the matchless story of the sinful woman and the proud + Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, which had hitherto + carried the strident note of nervousness, mellowed into rich and subduing + fulness. The men listened with that hushed attention that they give when + words are getting to the heart. The utter simplicity of the reader's + manner, the dignity of his bearing, the quiet strength that showed itself + in every tone, and the undercurrent of emotion that made the voice vibrate + like a stringed instrument, all these, with the marvellous authoritative + tenderness of the great utterance on a theme so closely touching their + daily experience, gripped these men and held them in complete thrall. + </p> + <p> + When the reading was done the doctor stood for some moments looking his + audience quietly in the face. He knew them all, men from the camps and the + line, men from the hills and mining claims, men from the saloons and the + gambling hells. Many he had treated professionally, some he had himself + nursed back to health, others he had rescued from those desperate moods + that end in death. Others again—and these not a few—he had + “cleaned out” at poker or “Black Jack.” But to all + of them he was “white.” Not so to himself. It was a very + humble man and a very penitent, that stood looking them in the face. His + first words were a confession. + </p> + <p> + “I am not worthy to stand here before you,” he began, in a + low, clear tone, “God knows, you know, and I know. I am here for two + reasons: one is that I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard Boyle”—here + a gasp of surprise was audible from one and another in the audience—“a + man you know to be a good man, better than ever I can hope to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Durned if he is!” grunted “Peachy” to “Mexico.” + “Ain't in the same bunch!” + </p> + <p> + “An' that's thrue fer ye,” answered Tommy. But “Mexico” + paid no heed to these remarks. He was staring at the speaker with the look + of a man wholly bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “And the other reason is,” continued, the doctor, “that + I have something which I think it fair to tell you men. Like a lot of you, + I have carried a name that is not my own.” Here significant looks + were gravely exchanged. “They gave it to me by mistake when I + reached the Pass. I didn't care much at that time about names or anything + else, so I let it go. There are times in a fellow's life when he's not + unwilling to forget his name. My name is Boyle.” And then, in + sentences simple, clean-cut, and terse, he told of his boyhood days, the + Old Mill, the two boys growing up together, their love for and their + loyalty to each other, their struggles and their success. Then came a + pause. The speaker had obviously come to a difficult spot in his story. + The men waited in earnest, grave, and deeply moved expectation. “At + that time a great calamity came to me—no matter what—and it + threw me clear off my balance. I lost my head and lost my nerve, and just + then—” again the speaker paused, as if to gather strength to + continue—“and just then my brother did me a wrong. Not being + in a condition to judge fairly, I magnified the wrong a thousand-fold and + I tried to tear my brother out of my heart. I could not and I would not + forgive him, and I couldn't cease to love him. I lived a life of misery, + misery so great that it drove me from everything in earth that I held + dear, and for three years I went steadily down from bad to worse. I came + to the Crow's Nest a year and a half ago. My life since then most of you + know well.” + </p> + <p> + “Bedad we do! An' Hivin bliss ye!” burst forth Tommy Tate, who + had found the greatest difficulty in controlling his emotions of + indignation and grief during the doctor's self-condemnatory tale. At + Tommy's words a quiet thrill ran through the crowd, for few men of those + present but held the doctor in affectionate esteem. The sins of which he + was conscious and which humiliated him before them were, in their + estimation, but trivial. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the speaker was thrown off his track by Tommy's outburst, + but, recovering himself, he went on. “It would be wrong to say that + my life here has been all bad. I have been able to serve many of you, but + my work has done far more for me than it has for you. But for it I should + have long ago gone down out of sight. I confess that it has been a hard + fight for me, an awful fight, to stay at my work, but the day that I heard + that my brother was your missionary brought me the hardest fight I had had + for many a day. I wanted to get away from the past. For nearly four years + I had been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I had begun to forget a + little, but that day it all came back. This week I met my brother. I found + him dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn Valley. That morning my heart + carried hell in it. To-day it is like what I think heaven must be.” + As he spoke these words a light broke over his face, and again he stood + silent, striving to regain control of his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Blanked if he don't hold the cards!” said “Mexico” + in a thick voice to “Peachy” Budd. + </p> + <p> + “Full flush,” answered “Peachy.” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his + untutored nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a man in + torture. His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy + eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “How it came about,” continued the doctor, in a quiet, even + tone, “I am not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it + was God's great mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of + my heart. I forgave my brother that day—and—God forgave me. + That's all there is to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come to + me. I have got my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the + Old Mill.” A sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. The firm lips + quivered and the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to + master the emotions surging through his soul. + </p> + <p> + Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. “Peachy” + Budd was swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, “Mexico's” + swarthy face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the + back of the seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held + under an hypnotic spell. + </p> + <p> + Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. “I have just a + word more to say. I would like to give credit for this that happened to me + to the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all + my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away + without owning this up before you. How He did it, I do not pretend to + know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly concerns + me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. And now I've + got to square up some things. 'Mexico'—” At the sound of his + name “Mexico” started violently and, involuntarily, his hand + went, with a quick motion, toward his hip—“I've taken a lot + from you. I'd like to pay it back.” The voice was humble, earnest, + kind. + </p> + <p> + “Mexico,” taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other + side of his mouth, stood up and drawled out, “Haow? Me? Pay me back? + Blanked if you do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I played fair, 'Mexico,' but—” + </p> + <p> + “Then go to hell!” “Mexico's” tone was not at all + unfriendly, but his vocabulary was limited, and he was evidently deeply + stirred. “We're squar' an'—an' blanked if I don't believe + ye're white! Put it thar!” With a single stride “Mexico” + was over the seat that separated him from the platform and reached out his + hand. The doctor took it in a hard grip. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, men,” he said, when “Mexico” had + resumed his seat, “I've got to do something with this money. I've + got at least five thousand that don't belong to me.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tain't ours,” called a voice. + </p> + <p> + “Men,” continued the doctor, “I'm starting out on a new + track. I want to straighten out the past all I can. I can't keep this + money. I'd feel like a thief.” + </p> + <p> + But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and one and all protested to + each other, in tones that were quite audible over the hall and with + anathemas of more or less terrible import, that the money was not theirs + and that they would not touch it. The doctor listened for a minute or more + and then, with the manner of one closing a discussion, he said, “All + right. If you won't help me I'll have to find some way, myself, of + straightening this up. This is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and I'm + not any better than the rest of you, but I'd like to be a great deal + better man than I am, and, with God's help, I'm going to try. That's my + religion.” + </p> + <p> + And with these words he sat down, leaving the people still staring at him + and waiting for something in the way of closing exercises to what must + have been the most extraordinary religious service in all their + experience. Softly, Margaret began to play the old hymn, “Nearer, My + God, to Thee!” The men, accepting it as a signal, rose to their feet + and began to sing, and with these great words of aspiration ringing + through their hearts they passed out into the night. + </p> + <p> + Among the many who lingered to speak to the doctor were “Mexico,” + “Peachy,” and, of course, his faithful follower, Tommy Tate. + “Mexico” drew him off to one corner. + </p> + <p> + “Say, pard,” he began, “you've done me up many a time + before, but blanked if yeh haven't hit me this time the worst yet! When + you was talkin' about them two little chaps—” here “Mexico's” + hard face began to work and his voice to quiver—“you put the + knife right in here. I had a brother once,” he continued in a husky + voice. “I wish to God someone had choked the blank nonsense out of + me, for I done him a wrong an' I wasn't man enough to own up. An' that's + what started me in all this hell business I've been chasin' ever since.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor took him by the arm and walked him out of the room. “Take + Miss Robertson home,” he said to Tommy as he passed. + </p> + <p> + An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly exhausted as his iron nerve + and muscle would allow him to be. “I say, Margaret, this thing is + wonderful! There's no explaining it by any physical or mental law that I + know.” Then, after a pause, he added, with an odd thrill of + tenderness in his voice, “I believe we shall hear good things of + 'Mexico' yet.” + </p> + <p> + And so they did, but that is another tale. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <h3> + THE HEART'S REST + </h3> + <p> + There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than the + valley that runs back from that far penetrating arm of the sea, Loch Fyne, + to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and gloomy glens, one + comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east and north winds + and open to the warm western sea and to the long sunny days of summer. It + is a valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents of sea and + heather, and shut in from the roar and rush of the great world, just over + the ragged rim of the craggy hills that guard it. A veritable heaven on + earth for the nerve-racked and brain-wearied, for the heart-sick and + soul-burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of Ruthven Hall, a + kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the valley's head, to bring + hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as needed the healing + that soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours filled with love that + understands, can give. + </p> + <p> + To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh from the + shelter of her English home, the bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and here for + five happy summers they had come from the strenuous life of Diplomatic + Service to find rest. Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his work was done, + still a young man, to rest under the yews in the little churchyard near + the Hall, leaving his lady with her little daughter and her infant son to + administer his vast estates. After the first sharp grief had passed, Lady + Ruthven took up her burden and, with patient courage, bore it for the sake + of the dead first, and then for the sake of the living. Round her son, + growing into sturdy young manhood, her heart's roots wound themselves, + striking deep into his life, till one day he, too, was laid beneath the + yew trees in the churchyard. From that deep shadow she came forth, bearing + her cross of service to her kind, to live a life fragrant with the airs of + Heaven, in fellowship with Him who, for love of man, daily gave Himself to + die. + </p> + <p> + It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of heart + and clean of life, that Jack Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and its + dwellers. The young men first met in London, and later in Edinburgh, where + both were pursuing their professions with a devotion that did not forbid + attention to sundry social duties, or prevent them from taking long walks + over the Lammermuirs on Saturday afternoons. To Ruthven Hall, Alan was + permitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he was secretly + convinced, stood sorely in need of just such benediction as his saintly + aunt could bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's coming to Ruthven Hall + was the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision of his + profession in the light of that great ministry to the world's sick and + wounded and weary by Him who came to the world “to heal.” In + another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it was the + day on which his eyes first fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. + Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven Hall, and thus it + fell that when, on one of his visits to the great metropolis, he found + Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and forbidden to sing again for + a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, he bethought him of the little + valley of rest in the far western Highlands. Straightway he confided to + Lady Ruthven his concern for his co-patriot and friend, giving as much of + her story as he thought it well that both Lady Ruthven and her daughter + should know. Hence, when they went north to their Highland valley again, + they carried with them Iola, to be rested and nursed, and to be healed in + heart, too, if that could be. For Lady Ruthven, with her eyes made keen by + grief and love, had not been long in discovering that, with Iola, the + deeper sickness was that which no physician's medicine can reach. + </p> + <p> + Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to + their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most tender + nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning. + </p> + <p> + “She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this + terrible restlessness,” said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was + visiting at the Hall. + </p> + <p> + “Partly,” replied Charrington gloomily, “but not + altogether, I fear. This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce + Fraser out again. But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly + help. She wrote yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more + than anyone, has kept in touch with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Charrington,” inquired Alan hesitatingly, “would you + advise that he should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being + perfectly disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but—” + </p> + <p> + “You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a + girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of her, as from + what you have told me of him he must be.” + </p> + <p> + “Unworthy!” cried Jack. “Did I ever call him unworthy? + It depends upon what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but + he's a man through and through, and he's clean and honourable.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, “then would + to Heaven she could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her + bones.” + </p> + <p> + “At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter.” + </p> + <p> + And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in + providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girl. + Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her + talk with Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such + times followed by quick penitence. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Lady Ruthven,” she said one day after one of her little + outbreaks, “I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so + perfectly self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. You must + have been born good and sweet.” + </p> + <p> + For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back swiftly to + long gone years. “No, dear,” she said gently; “I have + much to be thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but He + was patient and bore long with me. And He is still bearing.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me how you learned,” asked Iola timidly, and then Lady + Ruthven told her life story, without tears, without repinings, while Iola + wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the influence of it never + departed from her. Never were the days quite so bad again, but every day + while she struggled to subdue her impatience even in thought, she kept + looking for word from across the sea with a longing so intense that all in + the house came to share it with her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! if we only knew where to get him!” groaned Jack + Charrington to her one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her + happy past, she had opened her heart. “Why does he keep away?” + he added bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “It is my fault, Jack,” she replied. “He is not to + blame. No one is to blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure + he will come, I only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are + getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly.” + </p> + <p> + “Some days I am so well,” she replied, unwilling to grieve + him. “I would like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am + sure to hear soon now.” + </p> + <p> + They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger + wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jack!” she cried, “there it is!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Iola,” said Jack, almost sternly, “come in and + sit down.” So saying, he brought her into the library and made her + recline upon the couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of + her waking hours were spent. + </p> + <p> + It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the library. + “Shall I open it?” he asked, with an anxious look at Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ruthven came to her side. “Iola, darling,” she said, + taking both her hands in hers, “it is good to feel that God's arms + are about us always.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear Lady Ruthven,” replied the girl, regaining her + composure; “I'm learning. I'm not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read the + slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back upon her + couch. “God is good,” she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over + her. “You were right. Teach me how to trust Him better.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you all right, Iola?” said Jack, anxiously feeling her + pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, Jack, dear,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Then hooray!” cried Jack, starting up. “Let's see, + 'Coming Silurian seventh. Barney.'” he read aloud. “The + seventh was yesterday. Six days. She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to + be here by Monday at latest.” + </p> + <p> + “Saturday, Jack,” said Iola, opening her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. + Meantime, you're not to fret.” And he frowned sternly down upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Fret?” she cried, looking up brightly. “Never more, + Jack. I shall never fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for + these five days, every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well.” + </p> + <p> + It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every hour, every + minute, she appeared to gain strength. She ate with relish and slept like + a child. The old feverish restlessness left her, and she laid aside many + of her invalid ways. + </p> + <p> + “You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I suppose, Charrington?” + said Alan on Thursday, after the Silurian had been reported. + </p> + <p> + “I've just been thinking,” replied Jack, with careful + deliberation, “that it would be almost better you should go, + Ruthven. You see you're the man of the house, and it would be easier for a + stranger to tell him.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Charrington,” replied his friend, “you don't + often play the coward. You've simply got to go. But why should you tell?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce Fraser's + he would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly words yet, 'Quite hopeless. + Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I say, old man, I + suppose I ought to go, but you've got to come along and make talk. I'll + simply blubber right out when I see him. You know I'm awfully fond of the + old boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Charrington, I've got it! Take my aunt with you.” + </p> + <p> + Jack gasped. “By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but she's + the saintly kind that delights to bear other people's burdens.” + </p> + <p> + And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the boat and + bring Barney, with all speed, to Ruthven Hall. + </p> + <p> + At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with outstretched + hands, crying, “Barney, old boy, we're glad to see you! Here, let me + present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola is staying.” With + feverish haste he hurried Barney through the crowds, bustling hither and + thither about his luggage and giving himself not a moment for conversation + till they were seated in the first-class apartment carriage that was to + carry them to Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled in their places + when the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, dropped to silence. + </p> + <p> + “You have bad news for me,” said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven + steadily in the face. “Has anything happened?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dr. Boyle,” replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly + than was her wont, “but—” and here she paused, shrinking + from delivering the mortal stab, “but we are anxious about our dear + Iola.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the worst, Lady Ruthven,” said Barney. + </p> + <p> + “That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and her + heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful. It is better she should be + kept so.” + </p> + <p> + Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of their deep + sockets with the piteous, mute appeal of an animal stricken to death. He + moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, kept his eyes fixed + on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking relief. Charrington turned his head + away. + </p> + <p> + “We feel thankful for her great courage,” said Lady Ruthven, + in her sweet, calm voice, “and for her peace of mind.” + </p> + <p> + At last Barney found his voice. “Does she suspect anything?” + he asked hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager all + summer to get back to her home—to you—to those she loved. She + will rejoice to see you.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long moan. + Jack looked out upon the fleeting landscape dimmed by the tears he dared + not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop by drop, Barney drank + his cup to the bitter dregs. + </p> + <p> + “We try to think of the bright side,” at length said Lady + Ruthven gently. + </p> + <p> + Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at her in dumb misery. + </p> + <p> + “There is the bright side,” she continued, “the side of + the immortal hope. We like to think of the better country. That is our + real home. There, only, are our treasures safe.” She was giving him + time to get hold of himself after the first deadly stab. But Barney made + no reply except to gravely bow. “It is, indeed, a better country,” + she added softly as if to herself, “the only place we immortals can + call home.” Then she rose. “Come, Jack,” she said, + “I think Dr. Boyle would like to be alone.” Before she turned + away to another section of the carriage, she offered him her hand with a + grave, pitying smile. + </p> + <p> + Barney bowed reverently over her hand. “I am grateful to you,” + he said brokenly, “believe me.” His face was contorted with + the agony that filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her + speechless and in silence they turned away from him, and for the long hour + that followed they left him with his grief. + </p> + <p> + When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, carrying + the air of one who has fought his fight and has not been altogether + beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the great door of + Ruthven Hall. + </p> + <p> + “Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room,” said Lady + Ruthven; “I shall see Iola and send for him.” But just then + her daughter came down the stairs. “Mamma,” she said in a low, + quick tone, “she wants him at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, I know,” replied her mother, “but it will be + better that I—” + </p> + <p> + But there was a light cry, “Barney!” and, looking up, they all + saw, standing at the head of the great staircase, a figure slight and + frail, but radiant. It was Iola. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, Lady Ruthven,” said Barney, and was off three + steps at a time. + </p> + <p> + “Come, children.” Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the + library that opened off the hall, where they stood gazing at each other, + awed and silent. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven help them!” at length gasped Jack. + </p> + <p> + “Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington,” said Miss Ruthven. “You + are hurting me.” + </p> + <p> + “Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than I + can well stand.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington,” + said Lady Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that subdued all emotion and + recalled them to self-control. “You will see that Dr. Boyle gets to + his room?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later,” + replied Jack. “Yes, I confess,” he continued, answering Miss + Ruthven's look, “I am a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes + things tremendously. He was quite mad about her years ago, fiercely mad + about her, and when the break came it almost ruined him. How he will stand + this, I don't know, but I am afraid to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven,” said + Alan. “It should not be prolonged, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “It is well that they should be alone for a time,” she + replied, her own experience making her wise in the ways of the breaking + heart. + </p> + <p> + When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs Iola moved + toward him with arms upraised. “Barney! Barney! Have you come to me + at last?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. He took + her gently into his arms and, restraining his passionate longing to crush + her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, gazing into her + glowing, glorious eyes the while. “Where?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “This door, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a couch he + found there. Then, without a word, he put his cheek close to hers upon the + pillow, murmuring over and over, “Iola—Iola—my love—my + love!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Barney,” she cried, with a little happy laugh, “don't + tremble so. Let me look at you. See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and + calm. Look at me, Barney,” she pleaded, “I am hungry to look + at your face. I've only seen it in my dreams for so long.” She + raised herself on her arm and lifted his face from the pillow. “Now + let me sit up. I shall never see enough of you. Never! Never! Oh, how + wicked and how foolish I was!” + </p> + <p> + “It was I who was wicked,” said Barney bitterly, “wicked + and selfish and cruel to you and to others.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” She laid her hand on his lips. “Sit here beside + me. Now, Barney, don't spoil this one hour. Not one word of the past. You + were a little hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew you + were right. I was wrong. But I thought there would be more in that other + life. Even at its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The great 'Lohengrin' + night when they brought me out so many times—” + </p> + <p> + “I was there,” interrupted Barney, his voice still full of + bitter pain. + </p> + <p> + “I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It was + for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my body, went all into Ortrud that + night.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a great, a truly great thing, Iola.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Iola, with a proud little laugh, “I think + the dear old Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great + performance, but I waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you + didn't come I found that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, + how I wanted you, Barney, then—and ever since!” + </p> + <p> + “If I had only known!” groaned Barney. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out + of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself—now or + ever—promise me, promise me!” she cried, eagerly insistent. + </p> + <p> + “But I do, Iola.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will + you, Barney?” The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but + the desire to gratify her. + </p> + <p> + “I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling.” She wreathed + her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. “Oh!” + she said with a deep sigh, “I shall rest now—rest—rest. + That's what I've been longing for. I could not rest, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful + restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart filled with a + fierce refusal of his lot. + </p> + <p> + “There is no one like you, Barney, after all,” she murmured, + nestling down with a delicious sigh of content. “You are so strong. + You will make me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than + for months.” + </p> + <p> + Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the + treacherous disease. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except + just 'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? After your + long silence you might—” She raised her head and looked into + his eyes with her old saucy smile. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold + you like this? But you must not talk too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me something about yourself,” she cried. “What? + Where? How? Why? No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “It is hardly worth while, Iola,” he replied, “and it + would take a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. + All the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven than + this? Tell me about Margaret and—yes—and Dick,” she + shyly added. “Are they well and happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, darling,” said Barney, stroking her hair; “just + rest there and I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on then, Barney,” she replied with a sigh of ineffable + bliss, nestling down again. “Oh, lovely rest!” + </p> + <p> + Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days + together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy + that had come to them all. “And it was your letter that did it all, + Iola,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she replied gently, “it was our Father's goodness. + I see things so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is an + angel from Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!” + </p> + <p> + “I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for.” + </p> + <p> + A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady Ruthven, + with Jack in the background, appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. + Boyle would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night to + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it wise, do you think?” said Lady Ruthven gravely. “You + must save your strength now, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night,” she pleaded. “I'm + not going to be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. I + am going to eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them + I can go down. Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you + like. I am going, Jack,” she continued with something of her old + imperious air. + </p> + <p> + Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers upon + her wrist. She was growing excited. “Well, I think she might go down + for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best.” + </p> + <p> + “If she is good she might,” said Jack doubtfully. “But + she must promise to be quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good—as good as + I can.” With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content + themselves. + </p> + <p> + At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her + wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked + himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been mistaken. + As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever + she was! How quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, + glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds about + her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with + imagination's divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of a + change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her + conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it was + not these that made the change. There was a new quality of soul in her. + Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite aroma of + the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth, earthy. The + airs of Heaven were breathing about her. + </p> + <p> + To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in + Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in a new + and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet it + filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing its + claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the + heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in + spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, + before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale of + his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western + Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, the + discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary life, + the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the beautiful face, + its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip and cheek, + appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held the gaze of + the whole company. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what splendid work!” she cried. “How good to be a + man! But it's better,” she added, with a quick glance at Barney and + a little shy laugh, “to be a woman.” + </p> + <p> + It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's + attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?” cried Iola, as her hostess + made a move to rise. “What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you + are not going to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you + know, and I believe I feel like singing to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, my dear,” said Lady Ruthven, “do you think you + should exert yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does + your doctor say?” + </p> + <p> + “Barney?” + </p> + <p> + “Barney, indeed!” echoed Jack indignantly. “Oh, the + ingratitude of the female heart! Here for all these weeks I have—” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough + to banish me.” + </p> + <p> + “An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in + an atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting + conversation,” said Jack gravely. + </p> + <p> + “And music, Doctor?” inquired Iola, with mock humility. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll sing a little myself,” replied Jack. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear Iola,” cried Miss Ruthven, “hasten to bed, + I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear + Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the + Highlands last year,” she continued with mischievous gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Jack, much flattered, “I don't quite—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the horn, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the—ah—experience.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you feel now, Iola?” said Jack, quietly placing his + fingers upon her pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen.” And she ran up her + chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is most wonderful!” exclaimed Jack. “Her + pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you!” cried Iola triumphantly. “Now you will let + me sing—not a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned + from old Jennie. Barney's mother used to sing it.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Iola,” entreated Lady Ruthven, “do you think + you should venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't ask me,” said Barney. “I should forbid it were it + anyone else.” + </p> + <p> + “But it isn't anyone else,” persisted Iola, “and my + doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, + and such frills.” + </p> + <p> + She took her guitar. “I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother,” + she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect + reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang + the Highland lament, “O'er the Moor.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O'er the moor I wander lonely, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + Where are all the joys I cherished? + With my darling they have perished, + And they will return no more. + + “I loved thee first, I loved thee only, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + I loved thee from the day I met thee. + What care I though all forget thee? + I will love thee evermore.” + </pre> + <p> + And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, “You + never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you.” And in a + low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint + little song that described so fittingly her own experience, “My + Heart's Rest.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, + And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, + When the Master came to close His fold + And saw that one had strayed. + + “Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, + And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till + The Master's voice searched vale and hill: + I heard and fled afraid. + + “Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. + And the stars went out, and the day was gone, + Then the Master found, laid me upon + His bosom, unafraid.” + </pre> + <p> + A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out + of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette and + roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it passed. A + late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate. + </p> + <p> + “I feel as if I could sleep now,” said Iola. “Barney, + carry me.” Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong + arms. “Good-night, dear friends, all,” she said. “What a + happy evening it has been.” Then, with a little cry, “Oh, + Barney! hold me. I'm slipping,” she locked her arms tight about his + neck, lifting her face to his. “Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own + love,” she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. “How good + you are to me—how good to have you. Now kiss me—quick—don't + wait—again, dear—good-night.” Her arms slipped down from + his neck. Her head sank upon his breast. + </p> + <p> + “Iola!” he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, + glancing down into her face. He carried her to the open window. “Oh, + my God! My God! She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!” + </p> + <p> + But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, and + the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal ears + could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested upon + the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet + at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay as if + asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of + dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him + alone with his dead. + </p> + <p> + For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the + midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had not + gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not + snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near. + </p> + <p> + At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and lay + her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot where + her dead lay. + </p> + <p> + “We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here,” + she said. “You know we love her dearly.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven,” Barney + replied, his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. + “She loved this valley, and it was here she first found rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she loves this valley,” replied Lady Ruthven, refusing + to accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. “And here + she found peace and perfect love again.” + </p> + <p> + A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London + to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride + in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with + him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she + had made her London debut in “Lohengrin.” There in the sunny + valley they laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled + with their tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no + tears, only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <h3> + THE LAST CALL + </h3> + <p> + Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his + discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various + forms he felt that he stood almost alone. + </p> + <p> + At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. + He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was familiar + territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the + horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the + organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics + in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development + wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great + principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that + ground. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, “how + did the meeting go last night?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Daggett, “your men are all right in their + opinions, but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. + I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, + couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere + with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your + nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to + the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put + together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. Leave + things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their + husbands' business.” + </p> + <p> + Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not + yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of + the situation. + </p> + <p> + “There is something in what you say,” he conceded, “but—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come now,” interrupted Daggett, “you know better + than that. This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, + there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates + whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The + Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his + own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor + Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. + The safe thing is to do nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to know all about it,” said Dick. “What's the + good of your paper? Why don't you get after these men?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is + quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder + of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not + being an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. + Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations that + determine newspaper policy.” + </p> + <p> + Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. “It's true. It's terribly + true,” he said. “The people don't want anything better than + they have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for + a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want + an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump + into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand this + long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take a + hand.” + </p> + <p> + Daggett smiled a superior smile. “Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime + The Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name + with a small g.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, Daggett,” said Dick hotly, “The Pioneer's + day is past. I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep + it, and you, too, unless you change, out of existence.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it + arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but + the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his + sick and running this library and clubroom business.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Daggett thoughtfully, “I hear of him + often. The railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would + he run in this constituency?” + </p> + <p> + Dick laughed at him. “Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't + buy him. Oh, I know the game.” + </p> + <p> + Daggett was silenced for some moments. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said Daggett, looking out of the window, “here + is our coming Member.” He opened the door. “Mr. Hull, let me + introduce you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. + Mr. Boyle—Mr. Hull, the coming Member for this constituency.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent,” + said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of the + political parties or their representatives. “I must get along. But, + Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell + business.” With this he closed the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon,” said Hull, “but a little + unpractical, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” agreed Daggett, “he is somewhat visionary. But I + begin to think he is on the right track.” + </p> + <p> + “How? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this + country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks that + because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can keep back + the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over night. Boyle + says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see them, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Signs?” inquired Hull. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held + responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,' too, + has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's brother + is taking a hand, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not well.” + </p> + <p> + “You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't + forget it.” + </p> + <p> + Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable + wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for the + tenderfoot. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Daggett, “you may sniff. I've watched + him and I've discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an + old poker player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has + quit poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer.” + </p> + <p> + “What's his game?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke + here at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't + there. Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would + listen to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing + clubrooms.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' + think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. + He's a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. + He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'” + </p> + <p> + “What about 'Mexico'?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon + outfit, divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting + queer.” + </p> + <p> + Hull was at once on the alert. “That's interesting. You are sure of + your facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue + campaign is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow + is to be considered.” + </p> + <p> + But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political + machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the + saloon and “red light” influence to be easily emancipated. The + business interests of the little towns along the line were so largely + dependent upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that + few had the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign + for reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in + the railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic + lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the + saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, + unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to + cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. Boyle. + Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an endeavour + to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective were pulled + with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an unexpected + obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of the combined + influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was too good a + railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man “who + knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or blocked, + and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker.” + </p> + <p> + “He stays while I stay,” was Fahey's last word in reply to an + influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine. + </p> + <p> + Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. + “Mexico” and the organization of which he was the head were + instructed to “run him out.” Receiving his orders, “Mexico” + called his agents together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage + immediately developed, one party led by “Peachy” being + strongly in favour of obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and + scattering, strongly opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. “Mexico” + sat silent, watchful, impassive. At length, “Peachy,” in full + swing of an impassioned and sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his + person and his ways, was called abruptly to order by a peremptory word + from his chief. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think + you'd do something.” + </p> + <p> + A grim laugh at “Peachy's” expense went round the company. + </p> + <p> + “Do somethin'?” snarled “Peachy,” stung to fury, + “I'll do somethin' one of these days. I've stood you all I want.” + </p> + <p> + “Peachy's” oaths were crude in comparison with “Mexico's,” + but his fury lent them force. “Mexico” turned his baleful, + gleaming eyes upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Do something? Meaning?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” growled “Peachy.” + </p> + <p> + “Git!” “Mexico” pointed a long finger to the door. + It was a word of doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply + dismissal from that meeting, but banishment from the company of which + “Mexico” was head, and that meant banishment from the line of + the Crow's Nest Pass. “Peachy” was startled. + </p> + <p> + “You needn't be so blanked swift,” he growled apologetically. + “I didn't mean for to—” + </p> + <p> + “You git!” repeated “Mexico,” turning the pointing + finger from the door to the face of the startled wretch. + </p> + <p> + With a fierce oath “Peachy” reached for his gun, but hesitated + to draw. “Mexico” moved not a line of his face, not a muscle + of his body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids + fell somewhat over the piercing black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You dog!” he ground out through his clenched teeth, “you + know you can't bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought + you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and + quick!” + </p> + <p> + The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while “Mexico's” + hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly “Peachy” rose and + backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage + beast. At the door he paused. + </p> + <p> + “'Mexico,'” he said, “is this the last between you and + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the + man backing out of the door. + </p> + <p> + “Git out, you cur!” he said, with contemptuous deliberation. + </p> + <p> + “Take that, then.” + </p> + <p> + Like a flash, “Mexico” threw himself to one side. Two shots + rang out as one. A slight smile curled “Mexico's” lip. + </p> + <p> + “Got him that time, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “Hurt, 'Mexico'?” anxiously inquired his friends. + </p> + <p> + “Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight.” The bartender + and some others came running in with anxious faces. “Never mind, + boys,” said “Mexico.” “'Peachy' was foolin' with + his gun; it went off and hurt him some.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, there's blood here!” said the bartender. “He's + been bleedin' bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business.” + </p> + <p> + The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired. + </p> + <p> + “Now, boys, listen to me,” said “Mexico” + impressively, leaning over the table. “Right here I want to say that + the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man that touches him touches me.” + There was an ominous silence. + </p> + <p> + “Just as you say, 'Mexico,'” said one of the men, “but I + see the finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys + a-goin' and you know he ain't the kind that quits.” + </p> + <p> + “You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government + of this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. + But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay.” + </p> + <p> + As the meeting broke up, “Mexico's” friends warned him against + “Peachy.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! 'Peachy'!” said “Mexico” contemptuously. + “He couldn't hold his gun steady at me.” + </p> + <p> + “He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em + round.” + </p> + <p> + But “Mexico” only spat out his contempt for anything that + “Peachy” could do, and went calmly on his way, “keeping + the boys in line.” But he began to be painfully conscious of an + undercurrent of feeling over which he could exercise no control. Not that + there was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to “line up” + at the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging their + support to the “same old party.” There was, on the contrary, a + very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, especially after + the lining up process had been several times repeated, had been + distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all “Mexico” + represented. They “lined up” still, but beyond this they did + not go. + </p> + <p> + The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the + attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the + polls. “It's that cursed doctor!” he exclaimed to McKenty, the + Member for the district. “He's been working a deep game. Of course, + his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we + know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm + afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing,” said McKenty. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go + without grease.” McKenty spoke out of considerable experience. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of + another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys all + round.” + </p> + <p> + “I've heard about it,” said McKenty. “I guess the + Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of + thing, too.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” replied the editor. “Might do some + good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his + clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one + doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. He's + got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can get a + thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says.” + </p> + <p> + McKenty thought deeply for some moments. “Well,” he said, + finally, “something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, + at this stage to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?” + </p> + <p> + “'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. + “There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it + used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' + 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. + The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, + sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of + loosening up people.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't + work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's + some religion in it.” + </p> + <p> + McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The + doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting + last spring—I was—when he got up and preached us a sermon that + would make your hair curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a + graphic account of the meeting in question. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the + doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He + knows too much. You've simply got to get after him.” + </p> + <p> + This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking + out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived “Mexico” + sauntering down the other side of the street. + </p> + <p> + “There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! + 'Mexico'!” he called, and “Mexico” came slouching + across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?” said the editor. + “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!” + </p> + <p> + “Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the + editor and then to McKenty. + </p> + <p> + “How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most + ingratiating manner. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Comin' on soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be + ready, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't be too soon,” said “Mexico.” + </p> + <p> + “How is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion,” with a + glance at the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. “People + beginnin' to go to meetin' in this country.” + </p> + <p> + “I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'” said + McKenty, facetiously. + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” turned his eyes slowly upon the Member. + </p> + <p> + “Anything to say agin it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the + doctor's got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip.” + </p> + <p> + “Who says?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hear it everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess it must be right, then,” replied “Mexico,” + grimly. + </p> + <p> + “And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up + to the mourners' bench.” + </p> + <p> + “Do, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, 'Mexico,'” said McKenty, dropping his bantering + tone, “you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination + work you, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know about that.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm + working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my way, + they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. Me the + same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, do you imagine the doctor has?” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” paused, then said thoughtfully, “Blanked if I + can git on to his game!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You + don't really think he has your interest at heart?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't quite tell.” “Mexico” wore a vexed and + thoughtful air. “Wish I could. If I thought so I'd—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!” There was a + sudden gleam from under “Mexico's” heavy brows and a ring in + his usually drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. + “There ain't too many of that kind raound.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of that?” inquired the editor, as “Mexico” + sauntered out of the door. + </p> + <p> + “Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and + it ought to be enforced.” + </p> + <p> + “That means war,” said the editor. + </p> + <p> + “Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd + give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country.” + </p> + <p> + But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the country, + and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should so desire, + leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his work with a + devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to the uttermost. In + addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of the railroad he had been + asked to take oversight of the new coal mines opening up here and there in + the Pass, which brought him no end of both labour and trouble. The + managers of the mines held the most primitive ideas in regard to both + safety in operating a mine and sanitation of miners' quarters. + Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long campaign of education. + It was an almost hopeless task. The directors were remote from the ground + and were unimpressed by the needs so urgently reported by their doctor. + The managers on the ground were concerned chiefly with keeping down the + expenses of operation. The miners themselves were, as a class, too well + accustomed to the wretched conditions under which they lived and worked to + make any strenuous objection. + </p> + <p> + How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, a + constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on the + occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where it had + become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his return + from Scotland. + </p> + <p> + “We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before,” + grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “It's the universal law,” replied Dick. “Some men must + die for their nation. It's been the way from the first.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work + yourself to death as you are doing?” said Margaret, anxiously. + “You know you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were + when you came back.” + </p> + <p> + Barney only smiled. “That would be no great matter,” he said, + lightly. “But there is no fear of me,” he added. “I + don't pine for an early death, you know. I've got a lot to live for.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave in + the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return, and as + often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and speak + freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light and peace, + with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and Margaret shrank + from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's mind from thoughts + so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. Frankly and simply he + began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and tenderly upon all the details + of the last days of her life, as he had gathered them from Lady Ruthven, + her friend. + </p> + <p> + “It would be easier for me not to speak of her,” he had said + on his return, “but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I + want you to talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy.” + </p> + <p> + And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till + at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only + deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory of + her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of each + of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney. It + took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of his + loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's story + of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months, combined to + throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even in the most + radiant moments of her life. + </p> + <p> + “There is only place for gratitude,” he said, one evening, to + them. “Why should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my + memory of her or to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going + was so free from pain, and her last evening so full of joy?” + </p> + <p> + It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps to + his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he went + in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in him. His + touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the + old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the words that dropped + were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. The terrible + restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. + He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life + to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical well-being of the + men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, and hence + the system of libraries and clubrooms he had initiated throughout the + camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to him that he had to meet + the open opposition of the saloon element and the secret hostility of + those who depended upon that element for the success of their political + schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as ever. At first the men could + not fathom his motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly + waited for the real motive to emerge. As “Mexico” said, they + “couldn't get onto his game.” And none of them was more + completely puzzled than was “Mexico” himself, but none more + fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new + spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same + time, however, “Mexico” could not rid himself of a suspicion, + now and then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come + when “Mexico” would cast away every vestige of suspicion and + give himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be + followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and + “Mexico” was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to + his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by day reports came of the + doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude + of which made it difficult for “Mexico” to accept it as being + sincere. + </p> + <p> + “What's his game?” he kept asking himself more savagely, as + the mystery deepened. “What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's + job?” + </p> + <p> + One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve + miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had been + falling heavily all day. “Mexico” received him with a wrathful + affection. + </p> + <p> + “What the—ah—what makes you go out a night like this?” + “Mexico” asked him with indignation, struggling to check his + profanity, which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. “I can't + get onto you. It's all just d—, that is, cursed foolishness!” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll + tell you. Now listen,” said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry + before “Mexico's” fire. “I've been wanting to tell you + this for some time.” He opened his black bag and took out a New + Testament which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the + place, read the story of the two debtors. “Do you remember, + 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?” “Mexico” + nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. “I had a big debt on + then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, and since then He + has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back + what I owe.” Then he told “Mexico” in a low, reverent + tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. + “That's why,” he said, when he concluded his tale. “That + was a great thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these + poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out + on a night like this. And don't you think that's good enough?” + </p> + <p> + Then “Mexico” turned himself loose for five minutes and let + off the sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's + tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis: + </p> + <p> + “You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want.” + </p> + <p> + “'Mexico,'” replied the doctor, “you know I don't preach + at you. I haven't, have I?” + </p> + <p> + “Blanked if—that is, no, you haven't.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my + friend.” He put out his hand, which “Mexico” gripped and + held fast. “But,” continued the doctor, “I want to say + that He wants you more than I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, + wants you for His friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Doc,” said “Mexico,” drawing back a little + from him, “I guess not. That there debt goes back for twenty years, + and it's piled out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see + you and hear you talk. It would be a blank—that is, a pretty fine + thing to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be + like a sandhill agin that mountain there.” + </p> + <p> + “The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'” said the + doctor, quietly. “He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell + you, 'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!” + </p> + <p> + “You're right there,” said “Mexico,” emphatically. + Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, “Say, you're not + talkin' religion to me, are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've + got a good thing and I want my friend to have it.” + </p> + <p> + When the doctor was departing next morning “Mexico” stopped + him at the door. “I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that + there book of yours for a spell?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor took it out of his bag. “It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you + can bank on it.” + </p> + <p> + The book proved of absorbing interest to “Mexico.” He read it + openly in the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between + the book and the business he was carrying on, but not without very + considerable comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he + read became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the + doctor. The book did its work with “Mexico,” as it does with + all who give it place, and the first sign of its influence was an + uncomfortable feeling in “Mexico's” mind in regard to his + business and his habits of life. His discomfort became acute one pay + night, after a very successful game of poker in which he had relieved some + half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. For the first time in his life his + winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother + troubled him. In vain he argued that it was a fair deal and that he + himself would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts + would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he had + talked the matter over with his friend, and he watched impatiently for the + doctor's return. But that week the doctor failed to appear, and “Mexico” + grew increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his + wretchedness not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was + confined to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news + plunged “Mexico” into deepest gloom. + </p> + <p> + “If he's took to bed,” he said, “there ain't much hope, + I guess, for they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to + fight 'em off.” + </p> + <p> + But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the + doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He had + caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and that was + all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he would be on + his feet again. + </p> + <p> + “If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month,” + groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed. + </p> + <p> + “There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him,” replied + Margaret, “but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton,” + and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, “you + will help, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a month at the very least,” cried Dick. + </p> + <p> + But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he + would be fit again. + </p> + <p> + “It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical + Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway,” said Dr. Cotton, “and + I think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” replied Margaret, “that is because you haven't + known your patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we + simply obey.” + </p> + <p> + And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, when + both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had + apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the + flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “It's fer the doctor,” said Ben, “an' the messenger said + as 'ow 'Mexico' had got shot and—” + </p> + <p> + Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's + voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two words + had caught Barney's ear, “Mexico” and “shot.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me have the wire,” he said quietly, when Margaret came + in. + </p> + <p> + “I intended to give it to you, Barney,” she replied as + quietly. “You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know + best.” + </p> + <p> + Barney opened the telegram and read, “'Mexico' shot. Bullet not + found. Wants doctor to come if possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Cotton is not in?” inquired Barney. + </p> + <p> + “He is gone up the Big Horn.” + </p> + <p> + “We can't possibly get him to-night,” replied Barney. + </p> + <p> + Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew that + the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost. + </p> + <p> + “Take my temperature, Margaret.” It was nine-nine and + one-fifth. “That's not bad,” said Barney. “Margaret, I + must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. Yes, and more.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret turned slightly pale. “You know best, Barney,” she + said, “but it may be your life, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he replied gravely. “I take that chance. But I + think I ought to take it, don't you?” But Margaret refused to speak. + “What do you think, Margaret?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney!” she cried, with passionate protest, “why + should you give your life for him?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he repeated slowly. “There was One who gave His + life for me. Besides,” he added, after a pause, “there's a + fair chance that I can get through.” + </p> + <p> + She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. “No, Barney, there's + almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!” + The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, + earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the + crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She buried + her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the + golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing + to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice + grave and kind and tender, “You expect me to do right, Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation + was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then + raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into + his bravely while she answered simply, “You will do what is right, + Barney.” + </p> + <p> + Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. “Didn't + know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'” A + rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached + “Mexico,” and he would not have his friend risk his life for + him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a light + engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down. + </p> + <p> + When he entered the sick man's room “Mexico” glanced into his + face. “Good Lord, Doctor!” he cried, “you shouldn't have + come! You're worse than me!” + </p> + <p> + “All right, 'Mexico,'” replied the doctor cheerfully. “I + had to come, you know. We can't go back on our friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips + began to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. + “I know now,” he said hoarsely, “why He let 'em kill + Him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty + wound and dangerous, but in half an hour “Mexico” was resting + quietly. Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till + morning, conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well + knew indicated a very serious condition. When “Mexico” woke + the doctor examined him carefully. + </p> + <p> + “You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep + quiet and obey orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico's” hand grasped him. “Doc,” he said + anxiously, “you look awful bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're + going to be terrible sick.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I + came. I couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm + glad I came.” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico's” fierce black eyes softened. “Doc, I'm sorry + and I'm glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know + now. And I want to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right + out.” He waved his hand toward the bar. + </p> + <p> + “'Mexico,'” said Barney earnestly, “that's great! That's + the best news I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick.” He + took the gambler's hand in his. “Good-bye, 'Mexico.'” His + voice was earnest, almost solemn. “You've done me a lot of good. + Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll never go back on a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Mexico” reached out and held him with both hands. “Git + out,” he said to the attendant. “Doc,” his voice dropped + to a hoarse whisper as he drew the doctor down to him, “there ain't + nobody here, is there?” he asked, with a glance round the room. + </p> + <p> + “No, 'Mexico,' no one.” + </p> + <p> + “Doc,” he began again, his strong frame shaking, “I + can't say it. It's all in here till it hurts. You're—you're like + Him, I think. You make me think o' Him.” + </p> + <p> + Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about + his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. “God + bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word,” he said. “Goodbye, my + friend.” + </p> + <p> + They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's + eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through + the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every + moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave + welcoming smile. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Cotton has returned,” she announced. “And Dr. + Neeley of Nelson is here, Barney.” + </p> + <p> + He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. “That + was right, Margaret. And Dick?” + </p> + <p> + “Dick will be here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except + yourself,” said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Let me help you, Barney,” she said, putting her arms about + him. “You're the one who will not think of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best + lesson, after all.” + </p> + <p> + The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble + and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded + immediate operation. + </p> + <p> + “We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?” Barney + asked, a little anxiously. “An hour can't make much difference now, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly we shall wait,” cried the doctor. + </p> + <p> + Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent + message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious + operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of + emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. The + issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of + strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his + brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal + effects. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right,” he said, + with cheerful courage. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” answered Dick, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, Barney,” said Dick again, his voice steady and + even. + </p> + <p> + The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for a + message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then the + doctor came to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ready, Doctor?” said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we're all ready.” + </p> + <p> + “A minute, Doctor, please,” said Barney. + </p> + <p> + The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone. + </p> + <p> + “Just a little, word, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Barney,” cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great + sob, “I don't think I can.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind then, old chap,” replied Barney, putting out his + hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, Barney. I will,” said Dick, instantly + regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his + brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly + and simply his prayer, closing with the words, “And O, my Father, + keep my brother safe.” “And mine,” added Barney. “Amen.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready.” And with a smile he met + the doctor at the door. + </p> + <p> + In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse + told Dick all he dared not ask. + </p> + <p> + “How long before he will be quite conscious again?” he + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “It will be an hour at least,” replied the surgeon, kindly, + “before he can talk much.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door upon + his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help his + brother if he should chance to need help for “the last weariness, + the final strife.” + </p> + <p> + “We must help him,” he said to Margaret as they stood together + waiting till he should waken. “We must forget our side just now.” + </p> + <p> + But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night + they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it + were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong + and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word + would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly + ministry the pain departed. + </p> + <p> + “This is not too bad, Dick,” he said. “How much worse it + might have been. He brought us two together again—us three,” + he corrected, glancing at Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney,” replied Dick, “nothing matters much + beside that.” + </p> + <p> + “And then,” continued his brother, “He let me do a + little work for the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I + think. Help him, Dick. He is my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine, too, Barney,” said Dick; “mine forever.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!—for a + doctor, I mean!” + </p> + <p> + “We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear.” + </p> + <p> + “What a chance!” he murmured again, wearily, as he fell + asleep. + </p> + <p> + Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was at + peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied + robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a rosy sheen. As + Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, letting in the + glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned his face toward + the window, moving his lips in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Bending over him his brother caught the words, “Night no more.” + The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the + mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon + his brother's face. “It is near now, Dick—I think—and + it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there—under the pines—but + I think mother—would like—to have me near.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother.” Dick's + voice was steady and clear. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret,” said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see + her. An odd little smile played over his face. “I wasn't worth it, + Margaret—but I thank you—I like to think of it now—I + would like you—to kiss me.” She kissed him on the lips once, + twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered + in his ear, “Barney, my love! my love!” + </p> + <p> + Again he smiled up at her. “Margaret,” he said, “take + care—of Dick—for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Barney, I will.” The brave blue eyes and the clear, + sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind. + </p> + <p> + “I know you will,” he said with a sigh of content. For a long + time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. + Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. “Dick, + my boy,” he cried, in a clear, strong voice, “my brother—my + brother.” He lifted up both his arms and wound them round Dick's + neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one + more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had + fallen. + </p> + <p> + “He's gone, Margaret!” cried Dick, in a voice of piteous + surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her. “He's gone! Oh! + he has left us!” + </p> + <p> + She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. “We have only + each other now, Dick,” she said, and took him in her arms. And so, + in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found + courage to turn again and live. + </p> + <p> + Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the + Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. It + was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a king. At + every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was + their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay + was made. The station house and platform and the street behind were + blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down + the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the + costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the bier. The + messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, “The men + would like to see him again, if you think best.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell them to come,” replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to + uncover the face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for + the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they + looked upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of + triumph subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat + comforted. The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for + the loss of their friend, but to him the best had come. + </p> + <p> + By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. “Ochone!” + he sobbed, “when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but + when I luk at him I feel no pain at all.” It was the feeling in the + hearts of all. For themselves they must weep, but not for him. + </p> + <p> + At length, all had gone. “Could you say a word to them, Dick?” + said Margaret. “I think he would like it.” And Dick, drawing a + deep breath, went forth to them. His words were few and simple. “We + must not speak words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew + to love you as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know + you will not forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would + not ask me to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom + he loved and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, + that he gave himself to you.” + </p> + <p> + As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh + dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd quickly + made way. It was “Mexico,” pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon + his friends. He came up to Dick. “May I see him?” he asked + humbly. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting + him on to the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all + knew by this time that it was to save “Mexico” the doctor had + given his life. With heads bared they waited till “Mexico” + came out again. As he appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm + supporting him, the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly + face with its fierce, gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a + moment “Mexico” stood leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly + he drew himself erect. + </p> + <p> + “Boys,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly + audible over the crowd, “he died because he wouldn't go back on his + friend. He gave me this.” He took from his breast the New Testament, + held it up and carried it reverently to his lips. “I'm a-goin' to + follow that trail.” + </p> + <p> + Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and then + to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, even by + many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but remembered by + the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of that strong love + that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for His Whom it was his + pride and joy to call Master and Friend. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIV + </h2> + <h3> + FOR LOVE'S SAKE + </h3> + <p> + Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had + been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full pride of + their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of old, + the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake fences, + sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the rails peeped the clover, red + and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the dogwood, while + the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green clusters waiting the + sun's warm passion. The singing voices of summer were all a-throb, filling + the air with great antiphonies of praise, till this good June day was + fairly wild with the sheer joy of life. + </p> + <p> + At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. “I'll + wait here,” she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up the + chaste beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his + fierce rays. “I must get into the shade,” she said, climbed + the fence, and, on the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself down + in the shade of the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to + her. How well she remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The + ache would never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that + only love knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem. + </p> + <p> + A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, + remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help and + comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, “Take + care of Dick for me,” had moved her to offer with shy courage to go + back with him. But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of any such + persuasion. + </p> + <p> + “You must not come to me for pity,” he said, bidding her + good-bye. + </p> + <p> + But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and + wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's heroic + service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had + returned. To-day he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah, there + he was now. On the crest of the hill he would turn and look toward her. + There, he had turned. + </p> + <p> + As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, “Margaret!” + and came running toward her. + </p> + <p> + She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the + throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him. + </p> + <p> + Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there + waiting. “Margaret!” he cried again, with a note of anxiety in + his voice that trembled under the intensity of his feeling. + </p> + <p> + But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her. + “Oh, I am so glad,” she whispered to herself. Dick came toward + her slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from + her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the + blue eyes lifted so bravely to his. + </p> + <p> + “For pity's sake, Margaret?” he asked, the note of anxiety + deepening in his voice. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. “Yes,” + she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, “and for + love's sake, too.” + </p> + <p> + And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full from + earth to heaven above. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + +***** This file should be named 3242-h.htm or 3242-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3242/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous onethe old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Doctor + A Tale Of The Rockies + +Author: Ralph Connor + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3242] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +THE DOCTOR + +A TALE OF THE ROCKIES + + +By Ralph Connor + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I. THE OLD STONE MILL + +II. THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + +III. THE RAISING + +IV. THE DANCE + +V. THE NEW TEACHER + +VI. THE YOUNG DOCTOR + +VII. THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + +VIII. BEN'S GANG + +IX. LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + +X. FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + +XI. IOLA'S CHOICE + +XII. HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + +XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + +XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + +XV. THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + +XVI. THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + +XVII. THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + +XVIII. THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + +XIX. THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + +XX. UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + +XXI. TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + +XXII. THE HEART'S REST + +XXIII. THE LAST CALL + +XXIV. FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + + + +THE DOCTOR + + + + +I + +THE OLD STONE MILL + + +There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. One, +from the sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, flower-decked +banks, wound between snake fences, along which straggled irregular +clumps of hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond +which stretched on one side fields of grain just heading out this bright +June morning, and on the other side a long strip of hay fields of mixed +timothy and red clover, generous of colour and perfume, which ran along +the snake fence till it came to a potato patch which, in turn, led to an +orchard where the lane began to drop down to the Mill valley. + +At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic +aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For there the valley with its +sweet loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the right, +out of an angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the pond which +brimmed gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond the pond a sloping +grassy sward showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the +hither side of the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge, +and at the nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows, +stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard +the shed and barn, all neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left +of the mill, with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond, +wandered off green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the +Mill Creek, foaming as if enraged that it should have been even for a +brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, beyond the +many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream +entered, and maple and beech on the higher levels. That was one way to +the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist or their oats for +old Charley Boyle to grind. + +The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line, +which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path, +sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the +barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech +and maple woods to the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the +right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one +wished to reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill, +with its dam and pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard, +made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of +peace. At least, the woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the +willows fell, found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested +her; the full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours +forth herself on a summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted +her. She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and straight she +stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with features +that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her black hair shot with silver +threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep set, black +and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that +have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens. + +"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as she +gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it." + +As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of +the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin. + +"Oh, that weary fiddle!" she said with an impatient shake of her head. +But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into tender pity. +"Ah, well, well," she sighed, "poor man, it is the kind heart he has, +whateffer." + +She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large +living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that +joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside +the door. "Mercy me!" she cried, "it's time my own work was done. But +I'll just step in and see--" She opened the door leading to the mill and +stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven, +and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his +forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing +a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight. + +"The mill's a-workin', mother," he cried without stopping his flying +fingers, "and I'm keepin' my eye upon her." + +She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. "Ay, the mill is +workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking." + +"Of what then?" he cried cheerily, still playing. + +"It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you." + +"Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. "Sure you're wrong. +Listen to this. What is it now?" + +"Nonsense," cried the woman, "how do I know?" + +"But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue. +"Don't you mind--" and on he played for a few minutes. "Now you mind, +don't you?" + +"Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?" she cried, +heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance. + +But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly +changing expression, took on a softer look. + +"Ah, there you are," cried the little man in triumph, "now I know you +remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since--" +He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang +toward her. + +"Go away with you." She closed the door quickly behind her. "Whisht now! +Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were." + +"Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's +foolish enough I've been often since. And," he added with a sigh, +"it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do, +perhaps, what I've not done." + +"Whisht now, lad," said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a +great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. "What has come to +you to-day? Go away now to your work," she added in her former tone, +"there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch the +grist." + +"And why would you watch the grist, mother?" said a voice from the +mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his +mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set, sombre +eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of +power in every move he made and of passion in every glance. "Indeed, you +will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the +hay in no time. And do you know, mother," he continued in a tone of +suppressed excitement, "have you heard the big news?" His mother waited. +"He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will +bring him to the raising." + +A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a +voice calm and steady, "Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll be +late enough before it is in." + +"Listen to her, Barney," cried her husband scornfully. "And she'll not +be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by one in the +morning, and sure that's time enough." + +Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. "We +will have dinner early," he said, "and I'll just take a turn at the +hay." + +She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the +scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it to +his father. + +"Give it a turn or two," he said; "you're better than me at this." + +"Here then," replied his father, handing him the violin, "and you're +better at this." + +"They would not say so to-night, Dad," replied the lad as he took the +violin from his father's hands, looking it over reverently. In a very +few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for work; and +Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off up the lane. + + + + +II + +THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + + +Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a milk +pail in her hand turned into the mill lane. As she stepped from the +glare and dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as if Nature had +been waiting to find in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in +all her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of that green shady lane +with its sweet fragrance and its fresh beauty. + +It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that +supple form into its firm lines of grace, and to tint those moulded +cheeks with the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle +heads that nodded at her through the snake fence. It had taken sixteen +years of pure-hearted, joyous living to lend those eyes, azure as +the sky above, their brave, clear glance; sixteen years of unsullied +maidenhood to endow her with that divine something of mystery which, +with its shy reserve and fearless trust, awakens reverence and rebukes +impurity as with the vision of God. + +Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in the +sun, revealed a face strong, brave and kind, with just a touch of +pride. The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head and the +carriage of her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted in a smile +over the straight rows of white teeth one forgot the pride and thought +only of the soft persuasive lips. + +As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of +clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, "Oh, this is good!" She peeped +through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red clover. "What +a bed!" she cried; "I believe I'll try it." Over the fence she sprang, +and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the fragrant blossoms, she +stretched herself at full length upon her back. For some minutes she +lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed looking up through the spreading +thorn tree branches to the blue sky with its floating, fleecy clouds +far overhead. The lazy drone of the bees in the clover beside her, the +languorous summer airs swaying into gentle nodding the timothy stalks +just above her head, and all the soothing sounds of a summer morning, +that many-voiced choir that sings to the great God Nature's glad content +that all is so very good, rested and comforted the girl's heart and +body, making her know as she had not known before how very weary she had +been and how deep an ache her heart had held. + +"Oh, it's good!" she cried again, stretching her hands at full length +above her head. "I wish I could stay for one whole day, just here in the +clover with the bees and the birds and the trees and the clouds and the +blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidying up." + +As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the +moment the load she had been carrying for many months. For a year +she had tried to fill in the minister's household her mother's place. +Without a day's warning the burden had been laid upon her shoulders, +but with the fine courage that youth and love combine to give, denying +herself even the poor luxury of indulgence of the grief that had fallen +upon her young heart, she had given herself, without thought of anything +heroic in her giving, to the caring for the house and the household, and +the comforting as best she could of her father, suddenly bereft of her +who had been to him not wife alone, but comrade and counsellor as well. +Without a thought, she had at once surrendered all the bright plans that +she, with her mother, had cherished for the cultivation of her varied +talents, and had turned to the dull, monotonous routine of household +duties with never a thought but that she must do it. There was no one +else. + +"I believe I am tired," she said again aloud; then letting her heart +follow her eyes into and beyond the blue above her, she cried softly, "O +mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and how much you did +for me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear little mother. Oh, if +I had only known! Oh, we were all so thoughtless!" She stretched up +her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. "For your sake, +mother dear," she whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim +with tears. Not often since that day when they had carried her mother +out from the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging +children, and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself +the while. "I never saw HER cry," she said to herself, "not once, except +for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to give up," and +again the tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. "Nonsense," she cried +impatiently, sitting up straight, "don't be a big, selfish baby. They're +just the dearest little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for +them." + +Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation. +She locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. "It is a +beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over +the fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!" Once +more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay +again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents. + +"Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink--" + +She sprang up alert and listening. "That is old Charley, I suppose, or +Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe." She climbed up the conveniently +jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field. + +"It's Barney," she said, shading her eyes with her hand; "I wonder he +does not cut his fingers." She sat herself down upon the top rail and +leaned against the stake. + +"My! what a sweep," she said in admiring tones as the young man swayed +to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, swinging +easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting +sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the clattering +machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the mower's art with +all its rhythmic grace. + +Those were days when men were famous according as they could "cut off +the heels of a rival mower." There are that grieve that, one by one, +from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily +toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand +and eye, their invincible endurance. But there still offer in life's +stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less +picturesque perhaps, but no less truly testing. + +Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry of +motion. + +"Doesn't he do it well!" said the girl, following with admiring eyes +every movement of his well-poised frame. "How big he is! Why--" and her +blue eyes widened with startled surprise, "he's almost a man!" The tint +of the thistle bloom deepened in her cheek. She glanced down and made +as if to spring to the ground; then settling herself resolutely back +against her fence stake, she exclaimed, "Pshaw! I don't care. He is just +a boy. Anyway, I'm not going to mind Barney Boyle." + +On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to the +end. + +"Well done!" cried the girl. "You'll be cutting off Long John's heels in +a year or so." + +"A year or so! If I can't do it to-day I never can. But I don't want to +blow." + +"You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and +pitching and cradling, and what not." + +"They are, are they? Who is good enough to waste breath on me?" + +"Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just telling me the other day." + +"Oh, pshaw! I ran away from their crowd, but that's nothing." + +"And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go swinging +along?" + +"Do I? That's the only time then." + +"Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you learn +the scythe?" + +"Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's coming +home to-day." He glanced at her face quickly as he said this, but her +face showed only a frank pleasure. + +"To-day? Good. Won't your mother be glad?" + +"Yes. And some other people, too," said Barney. + +"And who, particularly?" + +A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering himself, +"Well, I guess I will, myself, a little. This is the first time he has +ever been away. We never slept a night apart from each other as long +as I can mind till he went to college last year. He used to put his +arm just round me here," touching his breast. "I'll tell you the first +nights after he went I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick to +find the place empty." + +"Well," said the girl doubtfully, "I hope he won't be different. College +does make a difference, you know." + +"Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out of him. +But he won't be different. Not to us, nor," he added shyly, "to you." + +"Oh, to me?" She laughed lightly. "He had better not try any airs with +me." + +"What would you do?" inquired Barney. "You couldn't take it out of his +hide." + +"Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down," she replied with a knowing shake +of her head. + +"Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time," replied Barney. "But nothing can +change Dick. And I am awful glad he's coming to-day, in time for the +raising, too." + +"The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And," regretfully, +"a big supper and a big spree afterwards in the new barn." + +"Are not you going?" inquired Barney. + +"I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll go. I +don't think father would like me to go, and,"--a pause--"anyway, I don't +think I can get away." + +"Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children for +once. You would like the raising. It's great fun." + +"Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get so wild +and yell so." + +"Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, if you +don't. And Dick is coming that way, too. Alec Murray is to bring him on +his way home from town." Again Barney glanced keenly at her face, but he +saw only puzzled uncertainty there. + +"Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I must go now." + +"Wait," cried Barney, "I'll go with you. We're having dinner early +to-day." He hung up the scythe in the thorn tree and threw the stone at +the foot. + +"I wish you would promise to come," he said earnestly. + +"Do you, really?" The blue eyes turned full upon him. + +"Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there." The +frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to disappoint the blue eyes. +Together in silence they set off down the lane. + +"Well," she said, resuming their conversation, "I don't think I can go, +but I'll see. You'll be playing for the dancing, I suppose?" + +"No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I may +spell him a little perhaps." + +"Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great at that, I know." + +"Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You ought to +see him! I'll make him do the Highland Fling." + +"Oh, Dick, Dick!" she cried impatiently, "everything is Dick with you." + +Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, "Yes. I guess +you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next to my mother, +Dick is the finest in all the world." + +At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene +spread out before them. + +"There," said Barney, "if I live to be a hundred years, I can't forget +that," and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he continued, "I tell +you what, with the moon just over the pond there making a track of +light across the pond--" She glanced shyly at him. The sombre eyes were +looking far away. + +"I know," she said softly; "it must be lovely." + +Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical +cadence a call long and clear, "Who-o-o-hoo." + +"That's mother," said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout. +"You'll be in time for dinner." + +"Dinner!" she cried with a gasp. "I'll have to get my buttermilk and +other things and hurry home." And she ran at full speed down the hill +and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too +hot to run. + +"How are you, Mrs. Boyle?" she panted. "I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after +father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know." + +Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face. + +"Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting you +run." + +"Letting me!" she laughed defiantly. "Indeed, he had all he could do to +keep up." + +"And that I had," said Barney, "and, mother, tell her she must come to +the raising." + +"And are you not going?" said the older woman. + +"I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me to be +at the dance." + +"Yes, yes, I know," quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, "but you might just come +with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will be doing +you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this +afternoon." + +"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought." + +"Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house." + +Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log +milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool over +the gravelly floor. + +"What a lovely place," said Margaret, stepping along the foot stones. + +"Ay, it's clean and sweet," said Mrs. Boyle. "And that is what you most +need with the milk and butter." + +She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's +pail with buttermilk. + +"Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones." + +"Och, yes!" said Mrs. Boyle. "There's no recipe at all. It is just this +way--" And she elucidated the mysteries of sconemaking. + +"But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure," cried Margaret, in +despair. + +"Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner +past, and we will call for you on our way." + +"Here, lassie," she cried, "your father will like this. It is only +churned th' day." She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen cloth, +laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket. + +"Good-bye," said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. "You're far too +kind to me." + +"Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good girl +you are, and a brave one." + +"Not very brave, I fear," replied the girl, as she quickly turned away +and ran up the hill and out of sight. + +"Poor motherless lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with loving +eyes; "it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor man, he can't +see it. Well, well, she has the promise." + + + + +III + +THE RAISING + + +The building of a bank-barn was a watershed in farm chronology. Toward +that event or from it the years took their flight. For many summers the +big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in a long heap at +the bottom of the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, the +foundation of the bank-barn. During the winter, previous the "timber was +got out." From the forest trees, maple, beech or elm--for the pine was +long since gone--the main sills, the plates, the posts and cross-beams +were squared and hauled to the site of the new barn. Hither also the +sand from the pit at the big hill, and the stone from the heap at the +bottom of the lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite gone +the lighter lumber--flooring, scantling, sheeting and shingles--were +marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons and +framers appeared and began their work of organising from this mass of +material the structure that was to be at once the pride of the farm and +the symbol of its prosperity. + +From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the +acknowledged, but none the less critical, observation of the immediate +neighbourhood. For instance, it had been a matter of free discussion +whether "them timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't too blamed heavy," +and it was Jack McKenzie's openly expressed opinion that "one of them +'purline plates' was so all-fired crooked that it would do for both +sides at onct." But the confidence of the community in Jack Murray, +framer, was sufficiently strong to allay serious forebodings. And by the +time the masons had set firm and solid the many-coloured boulders in +the foundation, the community at large had begun to take interest in the +undertaking. + +The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. It +had the distinction of being, in the words of Jack Murray, framer, +"the biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts." Indeed, so +magnificent were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who stood just five +feet in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a man of considerable +importance in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an air of +finality, "What! two twenty-foot floors and two thirty-foot mows! It +cawn't be did." Such was, therefore, the magnitude of the undertaking, +and such the far-famed hospitality of the McLeods, that no man within +the range of the family acquaintance who was not sick, or away from +home, or prevented by some special act of Providence, failed to appear +at the raising that day. + +It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were +already there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. The +varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity. + +"Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle," said Mr. McLeod, who stood at the +gate receiving his guests. + +"Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," shouted Tom Magee, a +big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue twenty years +of life in Canada had failed to impoverish. + +"We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day," replied the miller, as +with tender care he handed the green bag containing his precious violin +to his wife. + +"No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "The girls yonder would +hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'll +find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The wife +will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder, eh, +Margaret, lassie?" + +"Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in +order," replied Mrs. Boyle. + +"Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "A girl +with an eye and a chin like that may break through any time, and then +woe betide you." + +"Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said Margaret, springing +lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the +house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether +bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls +overflowing with life can produce. + +"Come along, Charley," roared Magee. "We're waitin' to make ye the +boss." + +"All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. "If you +make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold of +the gang. What do you say, men?" + +"Ay, that's it." "Tom it is." "Jump in, Tom," were the answering shouts. + +"Aw now," said Tom, "there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there. +He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's +the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!" + +There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of +Rory's hair and face. + +"Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said the fiery-headed, +fiery-hearted little Highlander. "When he's wanted, ye'll not find him +far away, I'se warrant ye." + +There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both +famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at +raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved +by Charley Boyle's ready wit. + +"We'll divide the work, boys," he said. "Some men do the liftin' and +others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'." + +A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker +was none too brilliant. + +"All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll have to take it. Git togither +an' quit yer blowin'." He cast an experienced eye over the ground where +the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would seem +wild confusion. + +"Them's the sills," he cried. "Where's the skids?" + +"Right under yer nose, Tom," said the framer quietly. + +"Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. +Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up! +Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye! +Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!" Angus was just six +feet four. "Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady! +Cant her over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up +on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her! +Togither-r-r--heave! Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too +rambunctious! Ye'll be afther knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back +a little now! Whoa! How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence? +All right. Now thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin' +down to pick the winners, an a small chance there'll be fer some of +yez." + +And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the +sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced. + +"Now thin, min fer the bints!" + +The "bents" were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which, +fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the barn. +Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn +floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly +joined to the one previously erected. + +"Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!" admonished Tom. "We don't want +no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a little +later on!" + +In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before +the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places, +but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for +an outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less +sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies interfered very +considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like +galley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they +took it all with good humour, though some few who had the misfortune to +fall specially under his tongue began to show signs that the lash had +bitten into the raw. The timbers of the last bent were specially heavy, +and the men, more or less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring +to their work with the alacrity that Tom deemed suitable. + +"At it, min!" he roared. "Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it +was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now thin! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that +time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what in the +blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees on a cowld +day! Shift over there, will ye!" + +In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same +moment, leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to +sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent +swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men +sprang back from under the huge bent. It was a moment of supreme peril. + +"Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!" howled Tom, "or the hull of +ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes." + +At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves +upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by others, and the +calamity was averted. + +"Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!" cried Tom. But there was +a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men stand in the +presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was +walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the +building, his face white, his voice shaking. "Give me yer hand, Barney +Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid +Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!" + +Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them +on the back with varied exclamations. "You're the lads!" "Good boys!" +"You're the stuff!" "Put it there!" + +"What are ye doin' to us?" cried Rory at last; "I didn't see anything +happen. Did you, Barney?" + +"We did, though," answered the crowd. + +For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing +hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had +seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men +had been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again relieved the strain. + +"Did any of you hear the cowbell?" he said. "It strikes me it's not +quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?" + +"Rory and Tom for captains!" cried a voice. + +"Not me, by the powers!" said Tom. + +"Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men." + +"All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same +place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an' +brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney +there. He's the man, I kin tell ye." + +This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy. + +"Barney it is!" "Rory and Barney!" they yelled. + +"Me!" cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. "I have never +done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising all my life." + +There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had +Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and quickness. + +"Carry pins, is it?" said Tom. "Ye can carry yer head level, me boy. So +at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will." + +"Well then," cried Barney, "I will, if you give me first choice, and +I'll take Tom here." + +"Hooray!" yelled Tom, "I'm wid ye." So it was agreed, and in a few +minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as +last choice. + +"We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. "We +don't want to hog on ye too much." + +"Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to +his place among Rory's men. "You'll earn your supper to-day with the +best of them." + +"If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!" cried Ben, to the huge +delight of the crowd. + +And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there +was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should complete each +its part of the structure first. The main plates, the "purline" plates, +posts and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set securely +in position. The side whose last man was first down from the building +after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a +hundred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off +to "ride" the plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were, +quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men +to be depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The +choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, side. + +"Niver fret, Barney," cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of +battle was his own man again. "Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, an' +the more air for us the better." + +Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word. + +"Aren't they splendid!" said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, her +cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. "Oh, if I were +only a boy!" + +"Ay," said Mrs. Boyle, "ye'd be riding the plate, I doubt." + +"Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!" answered the girl, with her eyes +upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young captain, whose +rugged face showed pale even at that distance. + +"Now then, men," cried the framer. "Mind your pins. Are you ready?" +holding his hat high in the air. + +"Ready," answered Rory. + +Barney nodded. + +"Git then!" he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like hounds +after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the tape, +they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men +possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps, +wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan. + +"Well done, Rory! He's up first!" cried a girl whose brilliant +complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her relationship to +the captain of the north side. + +"Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see," cried Margaret. "Oh, +Barney, hurry! hurry!" + +"Indeed, he will need to hurry," cried Rory's sister, mercilessly +exultant. "He's up! He's up!" + +Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had +just "broken it down," and in half a minute, seized by the men detailed +for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men +with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second half +was making its appearance over the bent, to be seized and placed and +pinned as its mate had been. + +"He's won! He's won!" shrieked Rory's admiring faction. + +"Barney! Barney!" screamed his contingent reproachfully. + +"Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!" + +"Beaten, indeed!" was the scornful reply. "Just wait a minute." + +"They're at the 'purlines'!" shrieked Rory's sister, and her friends, +proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of expressing +emotion under such circumstances. + +"My!" sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering +unutterable pangs of humiliation. "Some people don't mind making a show +of themselves." + +"Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?" cried Margaret, to whose eager spirit +Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow. + +But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been +carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of +his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been +making ready the "purlines" and laying the rafters in order so that, +although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once +his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in +more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters +moved to their positions as if by magic. Consequently, though when they +arrived at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his +rafters were lifted almost as one into their places. + +At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been +enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating defeat, +rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a +series of ear-piercing but altogether rapturous shrieks. + +"They're down! They're down!" screamed Margaret, dancing in an ecstasy +of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at braces, slipping, +sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from incredible +distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous shouts of +victory a heart-rending scream rang out, followed by a shuddering groan +and dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped from its +splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and +swinging free, fell crashing through the timbers upon the scurrying, +scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who +was madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by +good fortune against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path +of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking +at last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben +Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment +two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and +screaming and carried to an open grassy spot. After some moments of +confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry after his +horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow +placed thereon, to which Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly +lifted. + +"I'll go wid ye," said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and hat. + +Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself +together. "Stop a bit, Barney," he said. He beckoned Rory to his side. +"Tell them," he said between his gasps, "not to spoil their supper for +me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps I hearned it." + +"And that you did, lad," cried Rory. "No man better, and I'll tell +them." + +The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out +into admiring expletives, "Good boy, Benny!" "Benny's the stuff!" till +finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, "Three cheers +for Benny!" and the feelings of the crowd, held in check for so many +minutes, at length found expression in three times three, and with the +cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his drawn face, poor +Ben, forgetting his agony for the time, was borne away on his three-mile +drive to the doctor. + +The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won. + + + + +IV + +THE DANCE + + +The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' gate. +They were met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, with a group of +girls and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they drove into the +yard they were met at once with eager questions as to the condition and +fate of the unhappy Ben. + +"Ben, is it?" said Tom. "Indeed, it's a hero we've discovered. He stud +it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there are two av thim," he said, +jerking his thumb toward Barney. "Ye ought to have seen him stand +there houldin' the light an' passin' the doctor sthrings, an' the blood +spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, it's mesilf can't tell +ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by mesilf on the floor on the broad +av me back, an' naither av thim takin' annythin' to do wid me except +to drown me wid watther betune times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the born +doctor, an' so he is," continued Tom, warming to his theme, "for wid his +hands red wid blood an' his face as white as yer apron, ma'am, niver a +shiver did he give until the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was +sewed. Bedad! there's not a man in the county could do the same." + +There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts Barney +finally gave it up, and began unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound +of the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the silence there +rose a voice in song to the accompaniment of some stringed instrument. +It was an arresting voice. The group about the horse stood perfectly +still as the voice rose and soared and sank and rose again in an old +familiar plantation air. + +"Who in thunder is that?" cried Barney, turning to his mother. + +But his mother shook her head. "Indeed, I know not, but it's likely yon +strange girl that came out from town with the Murrays." + +"I know," cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss of her +head, "Alec told me. She is the girl who has come to take the teacher's +place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her father was +a colonel in the Southern army, California or Virginia or some place, I +don't just remember. Oh! I know all about her, Alec told me," continued +Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy curls. "And she'll have a +string of hearts dangling to her apron, if she wears one, before the +month is out, so you'd better mind out, Barney." + +But Barney was not heeding her. "Hush!" he said, holding up his hand, +for again the voice was rising up clear and full into the night silence. +Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till the verse was +finished. + +"She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney," continued Teenie wickedly. +"You'll just need to take her with you to the Mill." + +"Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house," said the +mother, speaking sharply. + +"She has no mother," said Margaret softly, "and she will need a place." + +"Yes, that she will," replied Mrs. Boyle, "and I know very well where +she will be going, too, and you with four little ones to do for, not to +speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot." Mrs. Boyle was evidently +seriously angered. + +"Man! What a voice!" breathed Barney, and, making fast the horse to the +waggon, he set off for the barn apparently oblivious of all about him. + +"Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows what's in +that lad. But he'll stir the world yit, an' so he will. An' that's what +the ould Doctor said, so it was." + +When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just finished +her song, and with her guitar still in her hands was idly strumming its +strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as to reveal +the ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous depths of her dark eyes. +It was a face of rare and romantic beauty framed in soft, fluffy, dark +hair, brushed high off the forehead and gathered in a Greek knot at the +back of her head. But besides the beauty of face and eyes, there was +an air of gentle, appealing innocence that awakened the chivalrous +instincts latent in every masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace +that set her in striking contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids +so perfectly able to care for themselves, asking odds of no man. When +the singing ceased Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side, +and, reaching for the violin, said, "Let me spell you a bit, Dad." + +At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, turned +quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for him, shouting, "Hello! you +old whale, you!" The father hastily pulled his precious violin out of +danger. + +"Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!" said Barney, struggling in his +brother's embrace; "stop it, now!" + +With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard with +an embarrassed, half-shamed, half-indignant laugh. The crowd gathered +near in delighted expectation. There was always something sure to happen +when Dick "got after" his older brother. + +"He won't let me kiss him," cried Dick pitifully, to the huge enjoyment +of the crowd. + +"It's too bad, Dick," they cried. + +"So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!" replied Dick, +in a hurt tone. "And me just home, too." + +"It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a minute," cried his +sympathisers. + +"I won't either," cried Dick, preparing to make an attack. + +"Look here, Dick," cried Barney impatiently, "just quit your nonsense +or I'll throw you on the floor there and sit on you. Besides, you're +spoiling the music." + +"Well, well, that's so," said Dick. "So on Miss Lane's account I'll +forbear, provided, that is, she sings again, as, of course, she will." + +It was Dick's custom to assume command in every company where he found +himself. + +"What is it to be? 'Dixie'?" + +"Yes! Yes!" cried the crowd. "'Dixie.' We'll give you the chorus." + +After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into +that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney +picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found +her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. +The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as +if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness +and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd +were entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient +for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She +turned to Dick, who had resumed his place beside her. "Who is the man +you wanted so badly to kiss?" she asked quietly. + +"Who?" he cried, so that everyone heard. "What! don't you know? That's +Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your +fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it +Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line." + +Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and +awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the +block where she had been sitting. + +"You accompany beautifully," she said in her soft Southern drawl; "it's +in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that." + +"Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager to get back again to +his shadow, "but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing +again." + +"Certainly," cried Dick, "she'll sing again. What will you give us now, +white or black?" + +"Plantation, of course," said Barney brusquely. + +"All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?" cried Dick. + +The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. "Do they all obey +you here?" + +"Ask them." + +"That's what," cried Alec Murray, "especially the girls." + +She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then +turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked +for, "You, too, obey, I see," she said. + +"Generally--, always when I like," he replied, continuing to play. + +"Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose I must then." And she +began: + + + "The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home." + + +Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its +dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice +soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello, +supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. +No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves +came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion +and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing +tide of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness +of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of +unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the +spell. As before, silence followed the song. + +"But you did not do your part," she said, smiling up at him with a very +pretty air of embarrassment. + +"No," said Dick solemnly, "we didn't dare." + +"Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse, +and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, "Music, when +it's good, makes him quite batty." + +But Iola ignored him. "Did you ever hear this?" she said to Barney. She +strummed a few chords on her guitar. "It's only a little baby song, one +my old mammy used to sing." + + + "Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', + Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. + Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', + So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass. + + CHORUS: + + "Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. + Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! + De angels want you, guess I know, + But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so. + + "Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, + Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, + De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, + Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah. + + "Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? + Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? + But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' + An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'." + + +A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat +quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain +over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal +to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached +the deep places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some +moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that +Dick released the tension by crying out, "Partners for four-hand reel." +Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood +waiting for the music. + +"Strike up, Barney," cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom +he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his +father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were +standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan. + +"Come away," he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice. + +"Isn't she beautiful?" cried Margaret impulsively. + +"Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!" + +"Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt," said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a +sharp glance at her son. + +But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away +as in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, for soon +the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream +mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to +Margaret and his mother of his College experiences, but except for an +occasional word with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the +fields and woods that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but +upon that new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon +lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his imagination, where he +must henceforth live and where his work must lie. For the events of the +afternoon had summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but +real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse +the change that had come to him, nor could he account for it. He did not +try to. He lived again those great moments when, having been thrust by +chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, he had swung them +to victory. He remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with which his +faculties had wrought through those few minutes of fierce struggle. +Again he passed through the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding +the light, now assisting with forceps or cord or needle, now sponging +away that ghastly red flow that could not be stemmed. He wondered now at +his self-mastery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, +handing the old doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his +surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the +floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of +anything like elation at the doctor's words, "My boy, you have the nerve +and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you to +be." + +But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the +interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned +before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, +eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in +the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the +upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all +in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, +vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic +touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which +must henceforth be his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were +the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It +was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, +the girl, her personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a +subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence there +as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from +the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the stream of +heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a voice, +to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove +into the quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of pain that with +the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already detached +from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his +boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring. + +As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon +his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his +brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had +immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, +it is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his +mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his +boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon +this thought his brother's voice broke in. + +"What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?" + +The kindly tone stabbed like a knife. + +"No, no. Nothing, Dick." + +"Yes, but there is. You're not the same." At the anxious appeal in the +voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom +he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he +could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his brother. + +"I don't know, Dick--I can't tell you--I don't think I am the same." A +look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face +turned toward him. + +"Have I done anything, Barney?" said the younger boy, his dismay showing +in his tone. + +"No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you." He put his hands on +his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed +himself. "It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same." His +speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: "And whatever comes to +me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you--remember +that, Dick, to you I shall never change." His breath was coming in quick +gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. +Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken voice, +"You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to +live." + +For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his +shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, "Well, I am +a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, +I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all +the same, Dick," he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, "we must +expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till +the world cracks." + +After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother +sat together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable +custom. + +"He is looking thin, I am thinking," said the mother. + +"Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out +of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever." + +"That was a fine work of yours with the doctor." The indifferent tone +did not deceive her son for a moment. + +"Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There +were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I +just did what I could." The mother nodded slightly. + +"You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing +something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby." + +"He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, +man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a +slip or a stop." He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away +for some moments. "Yes, fine! Splendid!" he continued as in a dream. +"And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I +see now--mother, I'm going to be a doctor." + +His mother stood and faced him. "A doctor? You?" + +The sharp tone recalled her son. + +"Yes, me. Why not?" + +"And Richard?" + +Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long +ago when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his as +they set forth to school for the first time, said, "Take care of your +brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge." That very day and many +a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought for him, had pulled +him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and reckless +spirit were frequently plunging him, but never once had he consciously +failed in the trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed exceptional +brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, the mother +and the older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, the +brother accepting as his part the life of plodding obscurity in order +that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and +college could do for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the +mother had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's +lips the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was +demanding, she had drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus +to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, amounting +to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself +an ambition whose realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney +needed, therefore, no explanation of his mother's cry of dismay, almost +of horror. He was quick with his answer. + +"Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course nothing +must stop Dick. I can wait--but I am going to be a doctor." + +The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its +firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly, "Ay, I doubt you will." Then +she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, "And what for +should you not?" + +"Thank you, mother," said her son humbly, "and never fear we'll stand by +Dick." + +Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood +watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, +she said aloud: "Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the +nerve and the fingers whatever." Then after a pause she added: "And he +will not fail the laddie, I warrant." + + + + +V + +THE NEW TEACHER + + +The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her +beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy +womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the +fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of +her face, so much so that little Ruby Ross was heard to say: "And do you +know, mother, she smiles with her nose!" The almost timid appeal in her +gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of +her appealing gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud command +due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling race. +But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon +sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, +based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public opinion, and +hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in +the presence of the great if somewhat vague public which at times she +individualized, as she became familiar with her pupils, in the person of +father or mother or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous +skill she played this string, albeit occasionally she struck a false +note. + +"What would your father think, Lincoln?" she inquired reproachfully of +little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down Easterner, by name +Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, "Maine Jabe," for his +fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. "What would your +father think if he saw you act so rudely?" + +"Dad wouldn't care a dang." + +Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover. + +"Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?" + +Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. +He hung his head in blushing silence. + +"Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman +if you tried hard." A new idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch of +hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one +visibly present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good +opinion he must win. + +The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. +The day would surely come when before the eyes of the public they would +parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready. + +But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This +principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature of the +reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably +closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To +recite before the teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth +considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear +the teacher sing to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of +bliss. It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, but an hour +of training as well. She initiated them into the mysteries of deep +breathing, chest tones, phrasing, and expression, and such was their +absorbing interest in and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks +truly remarkable results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably +concluded with a plantation song from the teacher; and with her +memory-gates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all +her soul in her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, +laughterful, or tear-choked, according to her mood and song. + +It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on +his way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of +movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to +old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be +in the store: + +"Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I +couldn't git my team to move past that there door!" + +"What's matter, Mr. Young?" + +"Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know +there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession blockin' +that there road in front of the school!" + +"Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?" inquired old +Hector, in anxious surprise. + +"Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one 'time +to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to be the +dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she +ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's +like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's bosom!" + +"That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind +paying a little extra school rate now," said Hector, with a shrewd +twinkle in his eye. + +"Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to the +trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song +again!" + +In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher +introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all else +failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the +individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of +one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in the +business of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went +on each misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked +down upon the blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like +manner recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour +of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, +persisted in robbing the school of its hour of delight. In the case of +Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, +the minister's son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract +a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, +peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a +great mathematician. At first he was inclined to despise the teacher, +setting little store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile, for +on the very first day he discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. +Arithmetic was her despair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's +propositions her fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she +threw herself frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings +together they, with Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the +bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession +of helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made +irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little Highland +gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in him. + +But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement +there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of her endowments in +those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility +play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, +do these Divine gifts play than many wise educationists conceive. The +lessons in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere +memory tasks and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay +its ordinary work to listen while the teacher told tales of the brave +days of old to the history class, or transformed the geography lessons +into excursions among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. +But it was in the reading lessons that her artistic talents had full +play. The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents +in the way of expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week of +drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would arrest +the class with the question, "What is the author seeing?" and with the +further question, "How does he try to show it to us?" Reading, to her, +consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of +telling it, and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's +words. + +In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot +might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. +"Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!" she would cry, rubbing +out with infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the horror +of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes of the vague but +terrible "they." + +Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither +wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. As a +consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both +teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and +so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking public that they faced the +ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or +accomplishment they might possess. + +A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall +wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents and friends +of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. +Of the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother +insisted that a student should show interest in the school, his mother +because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not +because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to +himself, conscious of the need of a reason, because there was nothing +much else to do. The presence of "Maine" Jabe might be taken as the high +water mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new +teacher and her methods. + +The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly +flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the +entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The +arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the +various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. The +algebra class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as +if the hitherto unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the +bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from whom the minister had +asked a demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor +Phoebe's bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in +placing the figure upon the board with the letters designating the +isosceles triangle he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at +the right hand side of the base instead of at its proper place at the +left, as in the book. The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring +the figure upon the board and depending entirely upon her memory, +soon plunged both the minister and herself into confusion hopeless and +complete. But the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, +and, going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as +she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, "Wait, Phoebe. You are quite +confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over." She +placed the figure upon the board with the designating letters arranged +as in the book. "Now, take your time," she said with deliberate +emphasis. "Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle." And thus, with her +feet set firmly upon the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through +that desperate maze of angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and +dexterity that elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the +minister, good man, included. Upon Barney, however, who understood +perfectly what had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleasant +impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical exercises +as a whole awakened within him a feeling of pain which he could not +explain. + +When the reading classes were under review the school passed from +the atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had such +reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar +sing-song monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a +real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or enacted. It was all +simple, natural, and effective. + +The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing +which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full +scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By +some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so +that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the +singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day +was complete. A single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, +hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at +the last, "for the children and the mothers," the teacher said, one soft +lullaby in which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the +low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their +lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values +that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way. +The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, +parents, and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air +of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small +degree to heighten the whole effect of the day. + +The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret. + +"Isn't she a wonder?" cried Dick. "What has she done to those little +blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!" + +"Yes, yes," replied the minister, "it is quite surprising, indeed." + +"In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a +while," continued Dick. + +"Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself +cleverly." + +"Yes, indeed," said Dick, with a slight laugh. "That was a clever bit of +work on the part of the teacher." + +"Oh, shut up, Dick!" said Barney sharply. + +"Oh, well," replied Dick, "no one expects mathematics from a girl, +anyway." + +"Do you hear the conceit of him?" said his mother indignantly, "and +Margaret there can show all of you the way." + +"Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever +you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link Young was +quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his +life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates." + +"We will just wait a year," said his mother. "It is a new broom that +sweeps clean." + +"Now, mother, you are too hard to please." + +"Perhaps," she replied, grimly closing her lips. + +As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently +been pondering Dick's words, said, "Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a +delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And +after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to +read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would +seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take +Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance." +At which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing +had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater +poignancy. + +But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, +at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the +trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon +the sole qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It +was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing +of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were +moved to immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part +to leave the matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands, +however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business +when, there and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, +although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid +in the section before. + + + + +VI + +THE YOUNG DOCTOR + + +Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a +square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge +and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of +character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which +he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He +would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult +the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy +interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, +with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose +briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and +asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an +hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when +the boy refused it. + +"What do I want with money?" cried the doctor. He had lost his only +son three years before. "There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. +Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my +boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But--" Here the doctor +snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. "Confound +these foggy nights! I'll put you through." + +"I'll pay my way," said Barney almost sullenly, "or I'll stay at home." + +"What are you doing here, then?" he roared at the boy. + +"I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?" + +"No," shouted the doctor again; "he can be a confounded fool and work up +by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the +last year, when he must attend college." + +"I could do that," said Barney, closing his jaws. + +The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like +a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. "You can, eh? Hanged if I +don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me." +The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched. + +"Oh, you can!" he cried impulsively, "and I'll be awfully thankful. You +can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you +have time." His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a +favour. + +The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first +time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of +study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he +waved his hand toward his library. + +"Now, there are my books," he cried; "use them and ask me what you will. +It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's +help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers +and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The +physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He guesses +and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing +and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!" Here the +doctor rose and began to pace the floor. "There's no guess in the knife +point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at +that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the +physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the +postmortem"--here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice +almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy--"at the post-mortem the +knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery +was made too late." These were the days before appendicitis became +fashionable. "Now, listen to me," continued the doctor, even more +impressively, "I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment +might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long, +the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of +weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great +surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these," and he held +up a coarse, heavy hand; "I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought +me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which +settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the +nerve--plenty of men have that--but you've also got the fingers, which +few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical +ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great surgeon! +But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink +bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!" +he cried, waving his great hands. "And remember!"--here his voice took +a solemn tone--"let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the +women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind, +disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the +finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till +you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time +at your command." At these words the boy's face, which had caught the +light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell. + +"Well, what now?" cried the doctor, reading his face like a book. + +"I have no right to take your books or your time." + +The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced +him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly +regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes +softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder. + +"Now, by the Lord that made you and me!" he said, "we were meant for a +team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay." The +boy's face brightened. + +"How?" he cried eagerly. + +"We'll change work." The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. "I want +fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled." + +"I'll do it!" cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his +face. At last he saw his path. + +"Here," said the doctor, taking down a book, "here's your Gray." And +turning the leaves, "Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And +here's the treatment," pulling down another book and turning to a page, +"Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it, +anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs three things, cleanliness, +good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that +Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, +grind you, and you'll go for your first examination next spring." + +"Next spring!" cried Barney, aghast, "not for three years." + +"Three years!" snorted the doctor, "three fiddlesticks! You can do this +first examination by next spring." + +"Yes. I could do it," said Barney slowly. + +The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face. + +"But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college." + +"Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?" + +The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in +its cracks and canyons. + +"Because--well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful +clever." Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. "Mother +wants him to be a minister, and," he added after a pause, "I do, too." + +The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few +minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I +understand, boy," he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender +tones, "I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want, +but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife." + +The boy went home to his mother in high exultation. + +"The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him," he announced. "He is +going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, +good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get +good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than +I can tell." + +"Good cheer!" cried Dick. "He'll not lack for company. How many has she +now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?" + +"There are thirteen of them already, poor thing." + +"Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow +the figure to remain at that." + +"Indeed, I am thinking it will not," said his mother, speaking with the +confidence of intimate knowledge. + +"Well," replied Dick, with a judicial air, "it's a question whether it's +worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept +the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive +tree." + +"Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all." + +"Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific +Mrs. Fallows!" + +"Whisht, laddie!" said his mother, in a shocked tone, "don't talk +foolishly." + +"But you said four, mother." + +"Twins the last twice," interjected Barney. + +"Great snakes!" cried Dick, "let us hope she won't get the habit." + +"But, mother," inquired Barney seriously, "what's to be done?" + +"Indeed, I can't tell," said his mother. + +"Listen to me," cried Dick, "I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the +'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this worthy service. +Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't +you?" + +"We will see," said the mother quietly; "we will do our best." + +"In that case the 'food department' is secure," said Dick; "already I +see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence." + +It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three +departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making +Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in +Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger +of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular +imagination. + +"Microbes? What's them?" inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously. + +"Very small insects." + +"Insects? Is it bugs you mean?" Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely +hostile. "I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this +'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to +me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to +'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with bugs, +an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'" + +It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes +was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that +these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles, +that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated +his "good food" department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with +the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain +articles of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results. + +Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that +furnished by the "good cheer" department. This was left entirely +in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the +enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his +mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade +Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other +duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly +with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat +unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more +suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola +and himself in the "good cheer" department and Barney in what he called +the "scavenging" department could achieve, there was still need of +Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest +time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and, +relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, +with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows +household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them. + +Altogether the "young doctor," as Ben called him, had reason to be proud +of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation +healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few +weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in +his praises of the "young doctor." It was the "young doctor" who, by +changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which +followed the first dressing. It was the "young doctor" who had changed +the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, bringing ease where +there had been chafing pain. + +"Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want," was Ben's final conclusion, +"but fer me, the young doctor, sez I." + + + + +VII + +THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + + +The "good cheer" department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, wrought +profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it no one but +himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent frankness, kept +the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his new +work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new ambitions, the "good +cheer" department was chiefly valued as an important factor in Ben's +progress. To Iola it brought what to her was the breath of life, +admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more than any, +not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what might +be called its by-products. The daily monotony of her household duties +bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though +cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite +abandoned without a sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the +work of the department in the monotony of her life, the companionship +of its members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her +keen sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly +cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra effort +which her membership in the department rendered necessary. + +It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick +with Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at the +Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as +she was about to depart to town for her holidays. + +"I have come to say good-bye," she announced as she shook hands with +Mrs. Fallows. + +"Good-bye, dear 'eart," said that lady, throwing up her hands aghast; +"art goin' to leave us fer good?" + +"No, nothing so bad," said Dick; "only for a few weeks, Mrs. Fallows. +The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees have decided that +they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string on her." + +"Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' to +leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as +'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more." + +"I don't wonder," said Dick. "Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged her, +as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in the +section.'" + +"Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, if I +may." + +"An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!" said Mrs. Fallows, picking up a +twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the inner +room. "Ther' now," she continued to Margaret, who was moving about +putting things to rights, "don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I know things +is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things piles up terr'ble, an' +I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to straighten 'em up. Jest +look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' +with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all +I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their +backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the +rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,' +sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' cleverlike, +is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!" she continued in +an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from +the next room. "An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a +sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' a-mutilatin' +of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at more'n my +share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits 'is +hamputation an' 'is splits." + +"His splints," cried Margaret; "are they all right now?" + +"Yes. Since the young doctor--that's w'at Benny calls 'im--change +'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young +doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see," continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, and +again lowering her voice impressively, "yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orful +at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me toes, mother, it's in me +toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' +'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes +right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right +enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e +tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! +an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. +Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say," and here Mrs. Fallows' +voice dropped quite to a whisper, "as 'ow that keeps 'em sore all the +longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor 'isself, +an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes. +'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. 'Tain't yer toes, +Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite +sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. +'E's a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them +toes buried, if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite +hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez +father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' +rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's boy. +'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as +nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the +feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is +toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's +hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. +'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, +it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in +yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel +the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But +the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd +like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, +that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But +father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind +know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt +w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes, +I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes +in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But +'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind +or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin' +'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes +used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes +is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make 'im +stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't +'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start +that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need +no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes +a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no--' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it +hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't +yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain +jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them +nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them +toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve +feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the +feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's +so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is +gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an' +I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, +well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble +inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem +a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look +a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph +wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll +call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll +say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's +Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know +somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in +father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' sez the doctor, +'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give +that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call +houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed +quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do +along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds +up to the brain, "Toes! Toes! Toes!" an' all 'long that toe line yeh can +git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, +then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' ''Undreds +of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves? +shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite +triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an' heverythin', all +them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not +seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em +all shout "Toes?" W'y don't the brain 'ear "Hankle" or "'Eel"?' Then +the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But +father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I +'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor +up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention +it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr. +Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez +'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble +if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im +thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, +'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels +or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little +'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. +An' I suppose w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of +hankle, or 'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' +'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin' +them toes?'" + +"But," said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, "I do talk. But poor +Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young lady +come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, +poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first +'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't ever done +talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely +pair they'd make, poor souls." + +Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by +Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola +reappeared. + +"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Fallows. "Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git +back. Good-bye, Miss," she said to Margaret. "It does seem to give me a +fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights." + +It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for +bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang. + +"It can't be that I am jealous," she said. "Of course, she is far more +attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?" She +shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. "Do you know, you are as +mean as you can be," she said viciously. + +At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing. + +"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, +"it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a +voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too." + +In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her +hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an +involuntary exclamation of admiration. + +"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you." With a +sudden rush of penitent feeling for her "mean thoughts" she put her arms +about Iola and kissed her warmly. + +"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of +affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not half so lovely as you. When +I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children +to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and +worthless." + +Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart. + +"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and +mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you +go the people just fall down and worship you." As she spoke she let +down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, +a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked +critically at her. + +"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and your big +blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. +But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it," +she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, "I can please them in +a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. +But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would +forget me. They wouldn't forget you." + +"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice alone; +it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your +manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft +about you." + +"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow, +thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I believe I could make them. +But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me." + +"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You ought to +have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening." + +"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like you, and +the men, too, in a way." + +"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're around +the boys don't look at me." + +"Yes, they do," said Iola, as if pondering the question. "Ben does." + +Margaret laughed scornfully. "Ben likes my jelly." + +"And Dick does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a keen +glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though +enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over +her fair cheek and down her bare neck. + +"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me. I've +known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with +them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you +know." + +"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a +chance to be anything." + +"Be anything!" cried Margaret hotly. "Why, Dick's going to be a minister +and--" + +"Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But +Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?" + +"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough," +replied Margaret indignantly. + +"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little +place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir." +To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard of." "And yet," she +went on, "if he had a chance--" + +But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking about? +There are plenty of good men who are never heard of." + +"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't mean--of course your father. Well, +your father is a gentle man. But Barney--" + +"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to +sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night." + +"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And +I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear +to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you." As +she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around +her neck. Margaret relented. + +"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good-night. Go +to sleep or you'll lose your beauty." + +But Iola clung to her. "Good-night, dear Margaret," she said, her lips +trembling pathetically. "You are the only girl friend I ever had. I +couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me." + +"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never cease +to love them." + +"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, "don't +turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me." + +"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a +child, "of course I will always love you. Good-night now." She kissed +Iola tenderly. + +"Good-night," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you for a +long time." + +"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill to-morrow night, +you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have +Ben there for nursing and feeding." + +Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of +a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of +interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in +what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving +machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's +invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing +machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it. + +Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a +crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only "paying +his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as well." + +The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It +was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave +her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she +regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar +pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. +It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting +to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs +you," he argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, +weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment +of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. +You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious +entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that +finally weighed with her. + +The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old +flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in +the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful +delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall +in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool +air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their +work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big +willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair, +Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, +Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking +in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally +singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or +plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too +sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever +quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be +a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of instrument. But in spite of her there +were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre +eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods +on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern "baby +songs." + +Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and +love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep +through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms +of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock +at first that he heard the Southern girl with her "foreign instrument" +try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. +Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland +airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took +on a new beauty, but they lost something as well. + +"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick +had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences, +"and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the +same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things +when your mother sings." + +"Different how?" said Dick. + +"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, +just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy +milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink." + +"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar. +They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind +altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden +rose." + +"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us one +now." + +"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola. +"You would not be shaming your mother, Richard." + +"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly. + +"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed, +I did not know you could sing." + +Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word. + +"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor +of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,' +too." + +"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began +to play that exquisite Highland lament. + +It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl +of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone +touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached +the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin +accompanying. + +Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had +the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of +the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with +a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the +quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As +she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in +her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain +and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her +feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's +face, softened to tears. + +"Oh, that is too lovely!" cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping +her hands. "No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad." She hid her +face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, "I could never +do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?" +she cried, turning to Barney. + +"It's the moan of the sea," said Barney gravely. + +"It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside," said Ben Fallows. +"There hain't no words fer it." + +"Sing again," entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her +voice. "Sing just one more." + +"This one, mother," said Barney, playing the tune, "your mother used to +sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'." + + + "How often haunting the highest hilltop, + I scan the ocean thy sail to see; + Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow? + Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me? + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be." + + +For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music +upon them. + +"One more, mother," entreated Dick. + +"No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye, +and for Margaret here." + +Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. "Thank you," she said, lifting +up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, "you have given me +great pleasure to-night." + +"Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a +sudden pity for the motherless girl. "And we will be glad to see ye when +ye come back again." + +For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget +that afternoon. + +"And now, ladies and gentlemen," cried Dick, striking an attitude, +"though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the +purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived +its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere +of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all +its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be +organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my +humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'." + +"Aye," said Barney with prompt heartiness. + +"Me, too," cried Iola, holding up both hands. + +"Mother, what do you say?" + +"Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world." + +"And you?" turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown +about her, "how do you vote?" + +"This member needs it too much"--with a somewhat uncertain smile--"to +say anything but 'Aye'." + +"Then," said Dick solemnly, "the 'good cheer' department is hereby and +henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the community here +represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in +their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to +this institution will be its highest reward." + +But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up +for them all in that same department of "good cheer." + + + + +VIII + +BEN'S GANG + + +The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and +bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the +fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring +grain. + +It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle +boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the +mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little +farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide +a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages, +the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous +binders and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind +something more ambitious. + +"Mother," said Dick, "did you hear of the new harvesting gang?" + +"And who might they be?" asked his mother, always on the lookout for +some nonsense from her younger son. + +"Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's +starting with us Monday morning." + +"Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt, +poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself." + +"Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us. +He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here +says so. And he will keep us busy." + +"If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some pumpkins +at bindin', I hain't worth my feed." + +"But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, "is he fit to go about that +machine? Something might happen the lad." + +"I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at +hand all the time." + +"And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You +will only be hurting yourselves." + +"You watch us, mother," cried Dick. "We'll be after Ben like a dog after +a coon." + +"Indeed," said his mother. "I have heard that it takes four good men to +keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's +Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the +whole four of them." + +"Huh!" grunted Dick scornfully, "I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison +and that gang of his!" + +"Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours," +said his mother. + +"It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine +compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me." + +"Indeed, and you would be the better of it," replied his mother +compassionately, "with your bones sticking through your skin!" + +It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much +elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into partnership +with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which poor +Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking +in him, he was beginning to aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's +care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had +quickened in Ben new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed, +and it was for Ben's sake more than for their own that the boys +had associated him with them in their venture of taking harvesting +contracts. And as the summer went on they found no reason to regret the +new arrangement. But it was at the expense of long days and hard days +for the two boys following the reaper, and often when the day's work was +done they could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed, +there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal of his brother in weight +and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from +sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, however, found them stiff +and sore, it is true, but full of courage and ready for the renewal +of the long-drawn struggle which was winning for them not only very +substantial financial profits, but also high fame as workers. The end of +the harvest found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit for any call +within the limit of their powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion +of such a call being made upon them. A rainy day found him at the +blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop was full +of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All +odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine weather were on that day +brought to the shop. + +Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a +new interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, there was +a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose +tongue took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain. +Withal, he had a little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, though +conscious of the new interest centring in him, and though visibly +swollen with the importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys, +he was exhibiting a dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for +that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary. + +Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, as +he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of "Old King" +Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the +district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering +manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the +"Old King." But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect +and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy +it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been +entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid +descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of +himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest +and most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of +a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" himself +driving the reaper. + +"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off +that table! You bet!" + +"How many of you?" asked Ben sharply. + +"Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected +question. + +"How many shocking?" continued Ben, with a judicial air. + +"Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!" + +"I guess so," grunted Ben, "from what I've seed." + +Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows, +may I ask?" he inquired with fine scorn. + +"Seed? Seed you bindin', of course." + +"Well, what are ye hootin' about?" Sam was exceedingly wroth. + +"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of excitement +Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I used to talk more when I wasn't so +busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't +had time. When we're on a job," continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to +listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through we don't +feel like it. We don't need, to." + +A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words. + +"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. "There +ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's +work, Ben, ten acres." + +Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He had no +love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose +hands he had suffered many things. + +"Two men!" shouted Sammy. "Your gang, I suppose you mean." + +Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!" he +cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. "Them's the two, if yeh want to know. +Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to +see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait +to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they +was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw +his h's recklessly about. "You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never +seed any." + +At this moment "King" Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop. + +"Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?" he exclaimed. + +Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess," he +growled. + +"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old King," +addressing the crowd generally. + +"Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his son Sam. + +"Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy." + +"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no awe of +his father. + +"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter, +Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're +glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to +you?" + +"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's" +kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout +his gang." + +"Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers." + +"But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben blows about." + +"Well, that would be a little strong," said the "Old King." "Why, it +took my four boys a good day to tie up ten acres, Ben." + +"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," said Ben, in what could hardly be called a +respectful tone. + +"Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just quit +yer blowin' an' talk sense." + +"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," repeated Ben stubbornly. + +"And I tell you, Ben," replied the "Old King," with emphasis, "your +boys--and they're good boys, too--can't tie no ten acres in a day. +They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on my west +fifty. If they can do it in a day they can have it." + +"They wouldn't take it," answered Ben regretfully. "They can do it, fast +enough." + +Then the "Old King" quite lost patience. "Now, Ben, shut up! You're a +blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the whole field against $50 that it can't +be done." + +"I'll take you on that," said Alec Murray. + +"What?" The "Old King" was nonplussed for a moment. + +"I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it." + +But the "Old King" was too much of a sport to go back upon his offer. +"It's big odds," he said. "But I'll stick to it. Though I want to tell +you, there's nearer twelve acres than ten." + +"I know the field," said Alec. "But I'm willing to risk it. The winner +pays the wages. How long a day?" continued Alec. + +"Quit at six." + +"The best part of the day is after that." + +"Make it eight, then," said the "Old King." "And we'll bring it off on +Monday. We're thrashing that day, but the more the merrier." + +"There's jest one thing," interposed Ben, "an' that is, the boys mustn't +know about this." + +"Why not?" said Alec. "They're dead game." + +"Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im risk +it. He's right careful of that boy." + +After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were loitering, +after their custom, in the churchyard waiting for the service to begin, +it was generally agreed that the "Old King" with his usual shrewdness +had "put his money on the winning horse." Even Alec Murray, though +he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom friend, Rory Ross, that he +"guessed his cake was dough, though they would make a pretty big stagger +at it." + +"If Dick only had Barney's weight," said Rory, "they would stand a +better chance." + +"Yes. But Dick tires quicker. An' he'll die before he drops." + +"But ten acres, Alec! And there's more than ten acres in that field." + +"I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in the +centre. If I can only get them goin' their best clip--I'll have to work +it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an ambitious +little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The first thing," continued +Alec, "is to get them a good early start. I'll have a talk with Ben." + +As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on +Monday morning when Mrs. Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at once +from her bed and called her sons. + +"You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to Morrison's +to-day. Here's Ben with the horses fed." + +"Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my watch." + +"No, it's six." + +Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney +concluded something must be wrong and routed Dick up, and with such good +purpose did they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from the time +the boys were called they were standing in the field waiting for Ben to +begin the day's work. + +After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the field. +"I'm going to shock," he announced. "They've got men enough up at +the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this field in shock by +to-morrow afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if you hustlers can get +it down by then." Alec was apparently in great spirits. He brought with +him into the field a breezy air of excitement. + +"Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after you +to-day, remember." + +"Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?" said Ben, who thoroughly +understood Alec's game. + +"Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump in an' tie a few myself." + +"Don't you fret yourself," replied Dick. "If you shock all that's tied +to-day you'll need to hang your shirt on the fence at night." + +"Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You tie +quicker than him, I hear." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Dick modestly, though quite convinced in his +own mind that he could. + +"Dick's a little quicker, ain't he?" said Alec, turning to Barney. + +"Oh, he's quick enough." + +"Did you never have a tussle?" inquired Alec, snatching up a couple of +sheaves in each arm and setting them in their places in the shock with a +quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others. + +"No," said Barney shortly. + +"I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself," he suggested cunningly to +Dick. "When a fellow isn't very strong he's got to be careful." This +was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to do a man's work in the +field, but he was miserable unless he took first place. + +"Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me," he said, taking Alec's bait. +"I've worked with him all harvest and I'm alive yet." Unconsciously +Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney was left +several sheaves behind. + +"He's just foolin' with you, Dick," jeered Alec. "He wouldn't hurt you +for the world." + +Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of +superiority now to one and again to the other, he put both boys upon +their mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a racing +pace, though neither would acknowledge that to the other. Alec kept +following them close, almost running for his sheaves, flinging a word of +encouragement now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben as he turned +the corners, and by every means possible keeping the excitement at +the highest point. But he was careful not to overdrive his men. By a +previous arrangement and without serious difficulty he had persuaded +Teenie Ross, who had come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing, +to bring out a lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour they +sat in the long grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch +which Dick at least was beginning to feel in need of. But not a minute +more did Alec allow. + +"I'm going to catch you fellows," he said, "if I've to take off my shirt +to do it." + +Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the +grain was heavier than Alec had counted upon, and when the noon hour had +arrived he estimated that the grain was not more than one-third down. A +full hour and a half he allowed his men for rest, cunningly drawing them +off from the crowd of threshers to a quiet place in the orchard where +they could lie down and sleep, waking them when time was up that there +should be no loss of a single precious moment. As they were going out to +the field Alec suggested that instead of coming back for supper at five, +according to the usual custom, they should have it brought to them in +the field. + +"It's a long way up to the house," he explained, "and the days are +getting short." And though the boys didn't take very kindly to the +suggestion, neither would think of opposing it. + +But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers +knocked off work for the day and sauntered down to the field where the +reaping was going on, it looked as if the "Old King" were to win his +bet. + +"Keep out of this field!" yelled Alec, as the men drew near; "you're +interferin' with our work. Come, get out!" For the boys had begun to +take it easy and chatting with some of them. + +"Get away from here, I tell you!" cried Alec. "You line up along the +fence and we'll show you how this thing should be done!" + +Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the field. +The long shadows of the evening were falling across the field. The boys +were both showing weariness at every step they took. Alec was at his +wit's end. The grain was all cut, but there was still a large part of it +to bind. He determined to take the boys into his confidence. He knew all +the risk there was in this step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury +to his brother. It was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to +the boys, he told them the issue at stake. + +"Boys," he said, "I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I don't care a +dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old King' Morrison and I'd like +to see you make a record. You've done a big day's work already, and if +you want to quit I won't say a word." + +"Quit!" cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. "What time have +we left?" + +"We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven." + +"Come on then, Barney!" cried Dick. "We're good for an hour, anyway." + +"I don't know, Dick," said Barney, hesitating. + +"Come along! I can stand it and I know you can." And off he set again at +racing pace and making no attempt to hide it. + +In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths apiece, +the two long sides and the two short ends. + +"You can't do it, boys," said Alec regretfully. "Let 'er go." + +"Yes, boys," cried the "Old King," who, with the crowd, had drawn near, +"you've done a big day's work. You'll hurt yourselves. You've earned +double pay and you'll get it." + +"Not yet," cried Dick. "We'll put in the half hour at any rate. Come on, +Barney! Never mind your rake!" + +His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, and +but for his pale face there was no sign of weariness about him. He +flung away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf together, +caught it up, drew, tied, and fastened it as with one single act. + +"We'll show them waltz time, Barney," he called, springing toward +the next sheaf. "One"--at the word he snatched up and made the band, +"two"--he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at the same time +into shape, "three"--he drew and knotted the band, shoving the end in +with his thumb. After him went Barney. One--two--three! and a sheaf was +done. One--two--three! and so from sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen +minutes to go down the long side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and +sprang to his place at the outer side. + +"Get inside!" shouted Barney, "let me take that swath!" + +"Come along!" replied Dick, tying his sheaf. + +"Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!" At this +Ben gave a yell. + +"They're goin' to do it!" he shouted, stumping around in great +excitement. + +"Double up, Dick!" cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the next and +tying them both together. Dick followed Barney's example, but here his +brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them came the +crowd, Alec leading them, watch in hand, all yelling. + +"Two minutes for that end, boys!" cried Alec, as they reached the +corner. "You're goin' to do it, my hearties! You're goin' to do it!" +They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end. + +"They can't do it, Alec," said the "Old King." "They'll hurt themselves. +Call them off!" + +"Are you all right, Dick?" cried Barney, swinging on to the outer swath. + +"All right," panted his brother, striding in at his side. + +"Come on! We'll do it, then!" replied Barney. + +Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, Barney +gradually gaining by the doubling process. + +"Don't wait for me," gasped Dick, "if you can go faster!" + +"One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!" cried Alec, as they +reached the last corner. "One minute and a half, and we win!" + +There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, two on +the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves +were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, Barney doubled the +first two, the second two, the third two, and putting the last three +together swung in upon Dick's swath where there were two sheaves left. + +"Don't you touch it!" gasped Dick angrily. + +"How's the time, Alec?" panted Barney. + +"Half a minute." + +Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, crying, +"Out of the way there!" snatched his band, passing it around the sheaf, +tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his hands on his +knees, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. + +For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's side, and +patting him on the shoulder, said, "Great man, Dick! But I was a fool to +let you!" + +"That's what you were!" cried the "Old King," slapping Dick on the +back, "but there's the greatest day's work ever done in these parts. +The wheat's yours," he said, turning to Alec, "but begad! I wish it was +goin' to them that won it!" + +"An' that's where it is going," said Alec, "every blamed sheaf of it, to +Ben's gang." + +"We'll take what's coming to us," said Barney shortly. + +"I told yeh so," said Ben regretfully. + +"Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?" said Alec, angry +that he should be balked in his good intention to help the boys. + +"We'll take our wages," repeated Barney in a tone that settled the +controversy. "The wheat is not ours." + +"Then it ain't mine," said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how great +peril his $50 had been. + +"Well, boys," said the "Old King," "it ain't mine. We'll divide it in +three." + +"We'll take our wages," said Barney again, in sullen determination. + +"Confound the boy!" cried the "Old King." "What'll we do with the wheat? +I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had hard luck this year." + +"No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" said Ben, stumping over to Barney's +side. "I stand with the boss. I take my wages." + +"Well, dog-gone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's two +days' good work there. And the rest we'll give to the church. Good thing +the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!" + +"But," added the "Old King," turning to his son Sam, "after this you +crawl into your shell when there's any blowin' bein' done about Ben's +gang." + + + + +IX + +LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + + +The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the snake +fence massed the clover, red and white. Through the rails peeped the +thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the top rail the +white crest of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze this sweet summer +day. In the clover the bumblebees, the crickets, and the grasshoppers +boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting their joy to be alive in so good a +place and on so good a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, and +all the bluer for the specks of cloud that hung, still-poised like +white-winged birds, white against the blue. Last evening's rain had +washed the world clean. The sky, the air, the flowers, the clover, red +and white, the kindly grass that ran green everywhere under foot, the +dusty road, all were washed clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in +the maples and thorns, the birds, their summer preoccupations forgotten +at the bidding of this new washed day, recalled their spring songs and +poured them forth with fine careless courage. + +In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this +flower-prinked, song-filled, clean washed, grassy lane stepped Dick this +summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the well-trained +athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart makes him merry +music. A clean-looking man was Dick, harmonious with the day and with +the lane down which he stepped. Against the grey of his suit his +hands, his face, and his neck, where the negligee shirt fell away wide, +revealing his strong, full curves spreading to the shoulders, all showed +ruddy brown. He was a man good to look upon, with his springy step, his +tan skin, his clear eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a +soul looked forth clean and unafraid upon God's good world of wholesome +growing things. + +From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his +boyhood's love of the open sky and of all things under it. He had just +come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest in many +ways of the college course. His class had thrust him into a man's place +of leadership in that world where only manhood counts, and he had "made +good." In the literary, in the gym, on the campus he had made and held +high place, and on the class lists, in spite of his many distractions, +he had ranked a double first. Best of all, it filled him with warm +gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had grudged him any of +his good things. What a decent lot they were! It humbled him to think of +their pride in him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse oblige. + +At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain that +had been running below his consciousness, like the minor strain in rich +music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot Barney +always made him pause to look back upon the old mill in its frame of +beauty. Poor Barney! Twice he had gone down to the exams, and twice he +had failed. Of all in the home circle only Dick could understand the +full bitterness of the cup of humiliation that his brother had put +silently to his lips and drained. To his mother, the failure brought no +surprise, and she would have been glad enough to have him give up "his +notion of being a doctor and be content with the mill." She had no +ambitions for poor Barney, who was "a quiet lad and well-doing enough," +an encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch +of genius. She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly +understand how deep the shame had gone into his proud, reserved heart. +His father did not talk about it, but carried him off to look at some +of the mill machinery which had gone wrong, and it was only by a gentler +tone in his voice that Barney knew that his father understood. But Dick, +with his fuller knowledge of college life, realized as none other of +them did the extent of Barney's miserable sense of defeat. + +And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his anew. +The causes of his failure were not far to seek. "He had no chance!" said +Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking with gloomy eyes upon +the scene of beauty before him. Things had changed since old Doctor +Ferguson's time. The scientific basis of medicine was coming to +its place in medical study, and the old doctor's contempt for these +new-fangled notions had wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how +he had gone, hot with indignation for his brother, to the new English +professor in chemistry, whose papers were the terror of all pass men +and, indeed, all honour men who stuck too closely to the text-book. +He remembered the Englishman's drawling contempt as, after looking up +Barney's name and papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, "He +knows nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest +experiment, don't you know." Poor Barney! the ancient and elementary +chemistry of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remotest affinity +to that which Professor Fish expected. Dick was glad this morning that +he had had sense enough to hold his tongue in the professor's presence. +It comforted him to recall the generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent, +the most brilliant surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name. + +"Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder!" + +"Fish doesn't think so," Dick had replied. + +"Oh! Fish be hanged!" the doctor had answered, with the fine contempt of +a specialist in practical work for the theorist in medicine. "He has some +idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for not knowing. I don't +say they are not necessary, but useful chiefly for examination purposes. +Send your brother down. Send him down. For if ever I saw an embryonic +surgeon, he's one! When he comes, bring him to me." + +"He'll come," Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it was for +his sake Barney had remained grinding at home. + +"And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, "or no 'varsity for me." +He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from his football comrade, +young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney and himself +positions in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, where, by +working overtime, there was a chance of making $100 a month and all +found. "And we'll make it go," said Dick. "There's $300 apiece for +us, and that's more than we want. Poor old chap!" he continued, musing +aloud, "he'll get his chance at last. Besides, we'll get him away from +that girl, confound her! though I'm afraid it's no use now." + +A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. "That girl" was +Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark, +with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother +a wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an +understanding of their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, and he +would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, +that had smitten him as he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as +Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing, +as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a +gleam of hope, had cried, "We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help +you this summer." And then again the inevitableness of what had taken +place had come over him at Barney's reply: "But, Dick, I don't want to +get out of it." At that moment Dick's world changed. No longer was +he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place. In vain Barney, +guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost +piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first +acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter +reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now +that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in +the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair +to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that +confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got +something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he had gone too +far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good enough, I guess, but +not for Barney." That was one of the bitter things that had survived the +night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal +of high manhood ever since he could think. "But there is no one +good enough for Barney," he continued, "except--yes--there is +one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney." As Barney among +men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his +life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying +his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always +come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney +in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of +honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than +anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get +to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love +there. + +It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him +this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the +thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness, +and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made +him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that +feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the +thought of Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her +unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high +spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never +for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should +have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering +of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to +Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With +such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him +go "pay his duty to the minister," his heart responded with so great a +leap of joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those +about him, sure that they must have noticed. + +And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make +acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered +what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced at +his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She +might come for a little stroll in the woods at the back of the manse, +but he would say nothing to her to-day. He would wait and watch to read +her heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go +on his way. A gleam of white through the snake fence against the pink +of the clover caught his eye. Under the thorn tree--he knew the spot +well--and upon the grass, lay a girl. "By Jove!" he whispered, his heart +stopping, thumping, then rushing, "it is Margaret." He would creep up +and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was close +to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, the +other flung wide in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing down +upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about +her mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she +was than he had thought! "Poor girl! she has been having a hard time! +It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!" At the +thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity +stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had ever +filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his +brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth and +swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of himself and, +before he knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips. +A long shivering sigh shook her. "Barney," she murmured, a slight smile +playing about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up +into Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat upright. + +"You! Dick!" she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in her +voice. "You--you dare to--" + +"Yes, Margaret," said Dick, aghast at what he had done, "I couldn't help +it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and--and I love you so much." + +"You," cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. "What +did you say?" + +"I said, Margaret," he replied, gathering his courage together, "that I +love you so much." + +"You love me?" she gasped. + +"Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night." + +"Last night?" she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown pale, +but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before. + +"Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret," he hurried to say, +"but only last night I found out I might love you. I never let myself +go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney--" At the mention +of his brother's name, the face that had been white with a look almost +of horror flamed quickly with red. "Last night," continued Dick, +wondering at the change in her, "I found out, and this morning, +Margaret, the whole world is just humming with joy because I know I may +love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined a fellow could +hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do +you knew what I am talking about?" Margaret's face had grown pale and +haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with pity. + +"Yes, Dick," she said slowly, "I know. I have just been learning." The +brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of herself. "I know all the +joy and--all the pain." She stopped short at the look in Dick's face. +The buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. A look of perplexity, +of great fear, and then of desolation, like that on her own face, spread +over his. He knew her too well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned +over to him, still kneeling in the grass. "Oh, Dick, dear!" she cried, +taking his hand in hers with a mother-touch and tone, "must you suffer, +too? Oh, don't say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!" +Her voice rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with +her eyes. + +"Do you say I must?" he answered in a hoarse tone. "I love you with all +my heart." + +"Oh, don't Dick, dear," she pleaded, "don't say it!" + +"Yes, I will," he said, recovering his voice, "because it's true. And +I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself love you. It +was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know." + +"Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. + +"I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so for +Barney. But last night"--here a quick flash of joy came into his face at +the memory--"I found out, and this morning I could hardly help shouting +it as I came along to you." He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took +her hand. "Don't you think, Margaret, you might perhaps some time." The +piteous entreaty in his voice broke down the girl's proud courage. + +"Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!" she sobbed, "don't! Don't ask me!" Her sobs came +tempestuously. + +He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said, +"Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand that, and--well, +I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get +hold of myself. There now--hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!" He +held her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet. + +At length she drew away, saying, "I don't know why I should act like +this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard +winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it +was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me +horrid," she went on hurriedly. "I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you. +But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you +that, Dick, no one knows." She sat up straight, her courage coming back. +"I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware." +A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint +flush touched her pale cheek. "But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't +we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?" Dick had been looking +at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes a +look of misery that went to the girl's heart. + +"Forget!" he cried. "Tell me how." + +She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, "Oh, +Dick! must we go on and on like this?" She pressed her hands hard upon +her heart. "There's a sore, sore pain right here," she said. "Is there +to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years." She +was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more he caught her in +his strong brown hands. + +"Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. +God--yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He +can't let us go on like this!" + +The words steadied her. + +"I know, Dick," she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, "there has +been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. He will +help you, too. Come," she continued, "let us go." + +"No, sit down and talk," replied Dick. He looked at his watch. "A +quarter after ten," he said, in surprise. "Can the whole world change in +one little quarter of an hour?" he asked, looking up at her, "it was ten +when I stopped at the hill." + +"Come, Dick," she said again, "we'll talk another time, I can't trust +myself just now. I was going to your mother's." + +But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him +as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and +he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings. + +"I can't, Margaret," he said. "You go. Let me fight it out." + +She knew too well where he was. "No, Dick, I will not leave you here. +Come, do." She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his +neck and kissed him. "Help me, Dick," she whispered. + +It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, +and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and +again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, +passionate tones, "I love you! I love you!" For a few moments she +suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him. +Her action recalled him to himself. + +"Forgive me, Margaret," he cried brokenly, "I'm a great, selfish brute. +I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again, +don't think me quite a cad." + +He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, +gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the +lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near. + + + + +X + +FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + + +"Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?" asked Dr. Bulling of +Iola. + +They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it +was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. +Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey +corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, +spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious +art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room +stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was +Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends +gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took +it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite +to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the +fireplace that had determined the choice of the room. + +As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden +splendour. + +"Yes, of course," she cried. + +"And why 'of course'?" inquired the doctor. + +"Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his +gold medal." + +"And who is that, pray?" + +"Mr. Boyle." + +"Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have +seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather +crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?" + +"Yes," replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, "he is from the +country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years ago. So +you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think +you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's +darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as +yet"--this with a little bow to her visitor--"but some day he will be +great. And, besides, he is very nice." + +"Of that I have no doubt," said the doctor, "seeing he is a friend of +yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and +will be glad to call for you." The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of +condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice. + +"You are very kind," said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner +to make the doctor conscious of his tone, "but I am going with friends." + +"Friends?" inquired the doctor. "And who, may I ask?" There was an +almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the +more sweetly. + +"Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. +In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I +think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital." + +"Nurse Robertson?" said Bulling. "Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a +saint, isn't she?" + +"A saint?" cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her +voice. "Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest +girl I know." + +"I should hardly have called her jolly," said the doctor, with an air of +dismissing her. + +"Oh, she is!" cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager +enthusiasm. "You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years +she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most +wonderful way. Looked after me, too." + +"Poor girl!" murmured the doctor. "She had a handful, sure enough." + +"Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, +and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife." + +"And put the girl's nose out of joint," said the doctor. + +"Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and, +on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has +been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, +which is not often, and still takes care of me." + +"Most fortunate young lady she is," murmured the doctor. + +"So I am going with them," continued Iola. + +"Then I suppose nobody will see you." The doctor's tone was quite +gloomy. + +"Why, I love to see all my friends." + +"It will be the usual thing," said the doctor, "the same circle crowding +you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you." + +"That depends on how much you--" cried Iola, throwing a swift smile at +him. + +"How much I want to?" interrupted the doctor eagerly. "You know quite +well I--" + +"How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to +all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How +ever," she continued, "one can hardly expect to see much of the very +popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up." + +"Oh, rot!" said the doctor. "I say, can't we get off a little together? +There are nice quiet nooks about the old building." + +"Oh, doctor, how shocking!" But her eyes belied her voice, and +the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant +convocation day at Trinity. + +The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the +students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean +and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be +the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body +finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was +the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way +of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had +to take part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly +uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some +favourite. At no point was the fervour greater than when Barney was +called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends at the left +of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed +as if the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the +occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties +he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the +perseverance and indomitable courage the young man had shown, and the +singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the +special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence +that pervaded the room was even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers +that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney had +taken his place again among the graduating class. + +Then someone called out, "What's the matter with old Carbuncle?" +eliciting the usual vociferous reply, "He's all right!" + +"By Jove," said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, "isn't that great? +And the old boy deserves it every bit!" But Margaret made no reply. She +was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in +each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he +noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears. + +"It's all right, little girl," he whispered, giving her hand a little +pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look in her +eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat. + +On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and +joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the +face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full +of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had +endured for the last three years were quite worth while. + +After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the +little group about Barney. + +"Congratulations, Boyle," he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of +a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his parchment in his +hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes, "that +was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day." + +Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's +tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the +familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it +made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed +to be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself +to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation +of him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words +Dr. Bulling took himself off. + +"Brute!" said Barney as the doctor retired. + +"Why, I am sure he seems very nice," said Iola, raising her eyebrows in +surprise. + +"Nice!" said Barney contemptuously. "If you knew how the men speak of +him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in the +swim, but he's a beast, all the same." + +"Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!" cried Iola, "for you know he's been a +great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him." +Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave +Barney, took the sting out of her words. + +Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly +because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own +admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, +who finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness, +carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for +Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of +the afternoon Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and +his little coterie of friends. + +And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against +Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital +staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the +exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into +closer touch with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also +to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical +men in the city. For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost +as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition +of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had +been invited, and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day +to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his +steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and +his large social connection than for his professional standing, had been +invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him +about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner +was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines +abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result that +as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about +Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water +and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention divided +between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with +his friends, sat across the table. As this group became more boisterous, +they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole company. +Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him, +and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became increasingly +offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became more and +more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of +this kind, and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no +means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. +Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was +about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by a look +of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend. + +"Disgusting brute!" said Trent, in a low voice. + +But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. +He had his glass in his hand. + +"Here's to the Lane!" he was saying, "the sweetest little Lane in all +the world!" + +"She's divine!" replied Foxmore. "And what a voice! She'll make Canada +famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?" + +"In church," replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his +followers. "That's right," he continued, "heard her sing, set things in +motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her +to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the +city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet little lane it +is," he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made +Barney grind his teeth in furious rage. + +"That she is," said Smead enthusiastically, "and thoroughly straight, +too!" + +"Oh," said Foxmore, "there's no lane but has a turning. And trust +Bulling," he added coarsely, "for finding it out." + +"Well," said Bulling, with a knowing smile, "this little Lane is +straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's lines run +in curves, you know." And again his wit provoked applauding laughter. +But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice was heard, clear and +cutting. + +"Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!" The words were plainly audible to +every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company. + +"What?" said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not heard +aright. + +"I say you are a cowardly liar!" + +"What the deuce do you mean?" + +"You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I +say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so." + +For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent. + +"Quite right," said Trent. "Beastly cad!" + +Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. "You impertinent young cub! What do you +mean?" + +For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and +flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man +was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice. + +"Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!" + +"No hurry about this, boys," said Bulling quietly; "I'll make him eat +his words before he's half an hour older." + +Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. "Let me at him. He's a great +knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything about +it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up." Dick had been 'varsity +champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern +words. + +"Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere +to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it +may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him." + +Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease +the doctor and to patch up the peace. + +"If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off," were the doctor's +terms. + +"If he says he lied," was Barney's condition. + +"Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," said Bulling; "it will not take +more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke." + +The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive +a heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing of +the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master of +it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, +avoiding and sending in killing blows, till at length bloody, dazed, +panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind +and strength. Opposite him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his +adversary. + +"This is easy, boys," he smiled. "Now, you young whipper-snapper," he +continued, addressing Barney, "perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell +you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, I'll send +you to sleep!" As he spoke he closed his teeth with a savage snap. + +"Will you say you're a liar?" said Barney, facing his opponent again, +and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings. + +"Ah, quit it!" said the doctor contemptuously, "Come along, you fool, if +you must have it!" + +Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a +heavy left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, quickly +following with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the +jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the +floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a +dozen men pulled him off. + +"Let him come," said Bulling, with a laugh, "I've a very fine assortment +of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable terms." + +Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake +were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and hands. + +"Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, someone," +said Dr. Trent. "A more cowardly brute I've never seen. You're a +disgrace to the profession, Bulling." + +"Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent," said Bulling +cynically. + +But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs +of reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could sit up. +Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory. + +"Here, Boyle," said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney sat up, +"a little more brandy and water." + +For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly +about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, "Where is he? +He's not gone?" He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. Treat's +hands and drank it off. "Get me another," he said. "Is he gone?" he +repeated, making an effort to rise. + +"Never mind, Boyle, he's gone." + +"Wait till another day, Barney," entreated Dick. "Never mind to-night." + +At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud +laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked to the +table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he +stood stretching his arms. + +"Ah, that's better," he said, and started toward the lavatory, but Dick +clung to him. + +"Barney, listen to me," he entreated, his voice coming in broken sobs. +"He'll kill you. Let me take your place." + +"Dick, keep out of it," said Barney. "Don't worry. He'll hurt me +no more, but he'll say it before I'm done." And, throwing off the +restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling was +arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he turned around. + +"I'm sorry, Boyle," he began, "but you brought it on yourself, you +know." + +Barney walked straight up to him. + +"I didn't hear you say you are a liar." + +"Look here," cried Bulling, "haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're +not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!" + +"Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?" + +Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel. + +"I say, boys," said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, "keep this fool +off. I don't want to kill him." + +Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney. + +"Now, Boyle, quit it," said Foxmore. "There's no use, you see." He laid +his hand on Barney's arm. + +Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, +but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away. + +"Get back!" cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him. +As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of its legs, +swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and, +putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg +free in his hand. + +"You men stand back," he said in a low voice, "and don't any of you +interfere." + +Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to +their places, leaving a wide space about him. + +"Good heavens!" said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, "the man is +mad! Call a policeman, some of you." + +"Drake, lock that door and bring me the key," said Barney. + +As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling, +the latter's pallor increased. "I take you men to witness," he said, +appealing to the company, "if murder is done I'm not responsible. I'm +defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to kill." + +"No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his club to Drake, "you won't +strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no more. The boxing +exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no more." + +The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and +terrible. + +"I'll give you your chance once again," he said. "Will you say you are a +cowardly liar?" + +Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces, +hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, with an +evident effort at bluster, "Not by a ---- sight! Come on! Take your +medicine!" But the lesson of the last half hour had not been lost on +Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his man, feinting to +draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his antagonist +in such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his wind began +to fail him, and it soon became evident that he could not stand the pace +for very long. + +"You've got him!" cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. "Keep it up, +Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five minutes more!" + +"Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the change in +the situation. + +Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to +appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath +came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only +hope lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next +minute or accept defeat. Nature was now taking revenge upon him for his +long outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised +and battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly, +without any sign of the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading +his opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had +arrived, and waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing +for Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning +his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back +into the angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and all would +be over. + +"Look out, Barney!" yelled Dick. + +Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and +leaped at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one long arm +forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. "Ha!" he +cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. "Now! +Now! Now!" As he uttered each word between his clenched teeth he shook +the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim +struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now clutching +and clawing at those terrible gripping fingers. His face grew purple; +his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell +to his side. "Keep your hands so," hissed Barney, loosening his grip to +give him air. "Ha! would you? Don't you move!" gripping him hard again. +"There!" loosening once more, "now, are you a liar? Speak quick!" The +blue lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which the head made the +sign. "Say it again. Are you a liar?" Once more the head nodded and the +lips attempted to speak. "Yes," said Barney, still through his clenched +teeth, "you are a cowardly liar!" The words came forth with terrible +deliberation. "I could kill you with my hands as you stand. But I won't, +you cur! I'll just do this." As he spoke he once more tightened his grip +upon the throat and swung his open hand on the livid cheek. + +"For God's sake, Boyle," cried Foxmore, "let up! That's enough!" + +"Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious man on +the floor, "it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, when +he uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, but that +chilled the hearts of the hearers, "you laughed. You were a beastly cad, +weren't you? Speak!" + +"What? I--I--" gasped Foxmore, backing into the corner. + +"Quick, quick!" cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his toes, +"say it quick!" His fingers were working convulsively. + +"Yes, yes, I was!" cried Foxmore, backing further away behind the +others. + +"Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, "you would all of you +laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!" He +walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner +in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. "You're not fit to +live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is safe from you!" His voice +rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of himself. His +ghastly face, bloody and horribly disfigured, made an appalling setting +for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the crowd he walked, gnashing +and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury +of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a +wild beast's lust of blood. Further and further back cowered the group +without a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they. + +"Barney," said Dick quietly, "come home." He stopped short, with a +mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few moments he stood silent +looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them rest upon the +doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, without a word, turned +and slowly passed out of the room. + +"Gad!" said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, "if the devil looks +like that I never want to see him." + + + + +XI + +IOLA'S CHOICE + + +Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes +shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm +light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her +table. She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while +she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that +overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break +and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving +leaves and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How +far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her +first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep +impression upon her heart, was when the men carried out her father in +a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared +veranda, she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the +memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her +soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid +discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first glad +freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her own bread +as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love +and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory +of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, one +face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him brought a +warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature +of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first she +saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the +barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding +about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the +barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while +she sang. At that point it was that life for her began. + +A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music +professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous +delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria. +She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new +powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his +trembling, broken voice, "My dear young lady, the world will listen to +you some day!" That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day +she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen. +Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with +self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical +pupils, for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings +and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to +heart-break with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends--how +she loathed it--of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most +objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes +for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not +only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And +now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand +was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye +falling upon a phrase here and there, "We have succeeded at last--the +Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you only want a chance--here it +is--you can do the part well." She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she +could do the part. "And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from +accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a +beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will +be gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, +I foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile slightly +sarcastic to curl her lips. + +"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday? +That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made +another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either." + +For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent +in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The +utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the +other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the +sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths +in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since +her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the +sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the +week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend +its hours quietly enough upon the yacht. + +She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address +written in bold characters. "This is the Duff Charrington invitation, +I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she does it nicely, +at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her +inclination." + +Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down +the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing +near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, +Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their +regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country +seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only +remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must +be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly +well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself +the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear +with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a +little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and +do her will. + +She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she cried, +seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. "Barney, poor old +boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where +had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had +been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid +triumphs, Barney had not appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she +murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could +not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages +to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful +as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled +a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly +shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be +her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek. +Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be +free to study, and--well, it was better to be free till she had made her +name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney +would come to her. + +But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great +love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He +was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she +had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away +from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so +incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had +her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, +a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some +finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks +and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public. +Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her +feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come +what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while +she was provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly +proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor +break. No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, +convenient husband. + +What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to +discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no. +Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall. +During these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her +snatches of his time, she had come to feel with increasing strength that +her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her +successes, she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, +brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her art had brought +her he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued +to be the standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, +his poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions, +and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine +sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of +reverence to the love she bore him. But more than all, it was to Barney +her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its +depth and strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could +not exhaust that deep well. But the question returned, where would +Barney be while she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along +her triumphal way? "Oh, he will wait--we will wait," she corrected, +shrinking from the heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years +she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that +nothing should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long +cherished and for which she had so greatly endured. + +She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an +approaching delight. + + +"MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you +last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two, +because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night +before last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie +and in the process got rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The +doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at +least in my hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean +life. He should not be allowed to appear with decent people. I have +written to forbid him ever approaching you in public. You will know how +to treat him if he attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business +to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one +but me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of +these people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to +your success. Your great voice needs not their patronage; if so, failure +would be better. When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. +Good-bye. It is hard not to see you. Ever yours, + +"Barney." + + +Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her +castle in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand. +She read the note hurriedly again. + +"He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling." She recalled a sentence in the +doctor's letter. "Let no one or nothing keep you from accepting this +invitation." "He's afraid Barney will keep me back. Nonsense! How stupid +of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He doesn't understand these +things. There has been a horrid row of some kind and now he asks me to +cut Dr. Bulling!" She glanced at Barney's letter. "Well, he doesn't ask +me, but it's all the same--'you will know how to treat him.' He's +too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It would be sheer madness! +Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is +preposterous! I must go! I shall go!" + +Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of +passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry. +It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was +no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so +heart-shaking that after it had passed she was thankful she had been +alone. + +"What's the matter with me?" she asked herself. She did not know that +the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a part +of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of +Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. "What shall I do?" +she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. "Margaret will tell me. No, +she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think it was wicked to +go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about +things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will understand. He has seen more +of this life and--oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick +to see Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that +Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note and +she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept the +invitation. "I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's +note. I really had accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements +were all made. I'll write the letters now." She hastened to burn her +bridges behind her so that retreat might be impossible. "There," she +cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, "I wish they +were in the box. I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I +cannot let this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney +should not ask it!" A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing her +temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not +force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought to prolong this +mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was +Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. "I'll just go and post these +now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat and ran down with the +letters, fearing lest the passing of her self-pity might leave her to +face again the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable opposition. + +"There, that's done," she said to herself, as the lid of the post box +clicked upon her letters. "Oh, I wonder--I wish I hadn't!" What she +had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her +self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable +results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with +the deep-seeing eyes. "He always makes you feel in the wrong," she said +impatiently. "You can never think what to say. He always seems right, +and," she added honestly, "he is right generally. Never mind, Dick will +help me." She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. +Foxmore. + +"Ah, good-morning," smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white +teeth under his waxed mustache. "And how does the fair Miss Lane find +herself this fine morning?" + +It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which +was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. +Bulling's friends, one of his toadies--and he had a number of them--who +represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort +to repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. +Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his +manner was irresistible with "the sex." Bulling might hold over him, +by reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field +without handicap and see who would win out! + +"I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon +you this morning." + +"Oh, indeed. Well--ah--come in." Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing +of him. It was against this man and his friends that Barney had defended +her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter +of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got +himself seated she was coolly master of herself. + +"Just ran in to give you the great news." + +"To wit?" + +"Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got it." + +Iola looked blank. + +"Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?" +Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words. + +"Surrendered? Just what, exactly?" + +"Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the +Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl." + +"Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? +Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a +pugilistic encounter." + +"A horse race!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with +this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it." + +"But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists +were chosen for any other reason than that of merit." + +In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner. + +"Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things +go." Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of +this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and +exasperating. "Oh, come, Miss Lane," he continued, making a desperate +effort to recover his patronizing tone, "you know just what we all think +of your ability." + +"What do you think of it?" Iola's tone was calmly curious. + +"Why, I think--well--I know you can do the work infinitely better than +Evelyn Redd." + +"Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me." + +"No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm +confident it will suit the part." + +"Thank you so much," said Iola sweetly; "I am so sorry that Dr. Bulling +should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man." + +"Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self-esteem, "we +enjoyed it." + +"How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?" + +"Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way," replied the doctor, +falling into his best professional tone. + +"And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that, +too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it is to +have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the +trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at +all." Iola's face and smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr. +Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the +subject. + +"Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?" + +"I am really a little uncertain at present," replied Iola. + +"Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut up, +not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it off." + +"You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?" + +"Oh, well," said the doctor, plunging wildly, "I wouldn't put it that +way. But the whole question of the Philharmonic was involved, and this +invitation was a flag of truce, as it were." + +"Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I cannot +pretend to follow the workings of your mind. But seeing that this +invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort on the part of +Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall decline it." In spite +of all she could do, Iola could not keep out of her voice a slightly +haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast deserting him. +"And as to the Philharmonic solos," continued Iola, "if the directors +see fit to make me an offer of the part I shall consider it." + +"Consider it!" gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl with her +absurd pretensions were given to understand the magnitude of the favour +that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer upon her. He became +brutal. "Well, all I say is that if you know when you are well off, +you'll take this chance." + +Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. Foxmore +had not thought her so tall. Her face was a shade paler than usual, her +eyes a little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as ever, and with +just a little ring as of steel in it she inquired, "Did you come here +this morning to make this threat, Dr. Foxmore?" + +"I came," he said bluntly, "to let you know your good fortune and to +warn you not to allow any of your friends to persuade you against your +own best interests." + +"My friends?" Iola threw her head slightly backward and her tone became +frankly haughty. + +"Oh, I know your friends, and especially--I may as well be plain--that +young medical student, Boyle, don't like Dr. Bulling, and might persuade +you against this yacht trip." + +Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood without +speaking for a few moments till she was sure her voice was steady. + +"My FRIENDS would never presume to interfere with my choosing." + +"Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to interfere +once too often for his own good. But he'll probably be more careful in +future." + +"Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. He +would do what he thought right." + +"He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with Dr. +Bulling again." The doctor's tone was insolently sarcastic. + +"Dr. Bulling?" + +"Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling was forced to chastise +him." + +"Chastise! Mr. Boyle!" cried Iola, her anger throwing her off her guard. +"That is quite impossible, Dr. Foxmore! That could not happen!" + +"But I am telling you it did! I was present and saw it. It was this +way--" + +Iola put up her hand imperiously. "Dr. Foxmore," she said, recovering +her self-command, "there is no need of words. I tell you it is quite +impossible! It is quite impossible!" + +Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the remaining +shreds of decency in speech. + +"Do you mean to call me a liar?" he shouted. + +"Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me as well?" + +The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the calm, smiling face. + +"I was a fool to come!" he blurted. + +"I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of +returning wisdom." + +The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further words +strode from the room. + +Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the open +door. "Oh!" she breathed, her hands fiercely clenched, "if I were a +man what a joy it would be just now!" She shut the door and sat down to +think. "I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at once. He'll tell +me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!" For the first time she +saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If she sang in the +Philharmonic it would be by virtue of his good offices and by the +gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for +the part and that it was immeasurably better than Evelyn Redd's counted +not at all. How mean she felt! And yet she must go on with it. She would +not allow anything to stand in the way of her success. This was the +first firm stepping-stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she +would be independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. She would go +on this yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. Bulling, +nor would she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. It +looked terribly like disloyalty to him to associate herself on terms of +friendship with the man who had beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated +herself! But she could not give up her chance. She would explain to +Barney how helpless she was and she would send Dick to him. He would +listen to Dick. + +Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads +making choice of a path that was to lead her far from the faith, the +ideals, the friends she now held most dear. Through all her years she +had been preparing herself for this hour of choice. With her, to desire +greatly was to bend her energies to attain. She would deeply wound the +man who loved her better than his own life; but the moment of choice +found her helpless in the grip of her ambition. And so her choice was +made. + + + + +XII + +HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + + +Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable +as when seen at a distance. The huge bulk of her, the pronouncedly +masculine dress and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its +dark mustache line on the upper lip, all of which at a distance were +calculated to overawe if not to strike terror to the heart of the +beholder, were very considerably softened by the shrewd, kindly twinkle +of the keen grey eyes which a nearer view revealed. Her welcome of Iola +was bluff and hearty, but she was much too busy ordering her forces +and disposing of her impedimenta, for she was her own commodore, to pay +particular attention in the meantime to her guests. The wharf at which +the Petrel was tied was crowded this Saturday afternoon with various +parties of excursionists making for the steamers, ferries, yachts, +and other craft that lay along the water front. Already the Petrel had +hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, was straining upon +her shore lines awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola stood idly gazing +at the shifting scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded on his mission +to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with his usual +smiling assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she noticed +him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of the wharf. Iola's +eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a man pushing his way +through the crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evidently to make +inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered oath, Bulling sprang to the aft +line. + +"Let go that line, Murdoff!" he shouted to the man at the bow. "Look +lively, there!" + +As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making +it imperative that Murdoff should execute his command in the liveliest +manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a space of blue +water between herself and the dock. She was not a moment too soon, for +Barney, having received his direction, was coming at a run, scattering +the crowd to right and left. As he arrived at the dock edge he caught +sight of Iola and Dr. Bulling. He took a step backwards and made as if +to attempt the spring. Iola's cry, "Don't, Barney!" arrested Mrs. Duff +Charrington's attention. + +"What's up?" she shouted. "How's this? We're off! Bulling, what the +deuce--who gave orders?" + +Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have said +herself, completely flabbergasted. At a single glance she took in the +white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white. + +"What's up?" she cried again. "Have you seen a ghost, Miss Lane? You, +too, Bulling?" She glanced back at the clock. "There's someone left +behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's our medallist, isn't it? +Do you know him, Bulling? Shall we go back for him?" + +"No, no! For Heaven's sake, no! He's a madman, quite!" + +"Pardon me, Dr. Bulling," said Iola, her voice ringing clear and firm in +contrast with Bulling's agitated tone, "he is a friend of mine, a very +dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane." As she spoke she waved her +hand to Barney, but there was no answering sign. + +"Your friend, is he?" said Mrs. Duff Charrington. "Then doubtless very +sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane? Shall we go back for him?" + +"No, he doesn't want me," said Iola. + +"Mrs. Charrington," said Dr. Bulling, "he has a grudge against me +because of a fancied insult." + +"Ah," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, "I understand. What do you say, Miss +Lane? We can easily go back." + +"Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola hurriedly; +"he is gone." + +"As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. I +declare he looks as if he needed bracing up. I shall take the wheel." + +"Mrs. Charrington," said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling disappeared +down the companionway, "that was Mr. Boyle, my friend, and I want you to +think him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't like Dr. Bulling. +He doesn't trust him." + +"My dear, my dear," said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, "don't trouble +yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! these +men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear creatures. +But they are just like ourselves, with a little more conceit and +considerably less wit. And they are not really worth all the trouble we +take for them. I must get to know your medallist, my dear. That was a +strong face and an honest face. I have heard John rave about him. John +is my young son, first year in medicine. His judgment, I confess, is not +altogether reliable--worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat as +to that young man's doings when they were initiating him. But I have no +doubt that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite mad about you, +and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my arms +round you as soon as possible." + +As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff +Charrington, who, with all her sporty manners and masculine ways, was an +honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart. + +"I'm glad now I came," said Iola gratefully; "I was afraid you +weren't--" She paused abruptly in confusion. + +"Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you." + +"Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was what +Dr. Bulling--" Again Iola hesitated. + +"Don't bother telling me," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, observing her +confusion. "No doubt Bulling gave you to understand that he worked me +to invite you. Confess now." There was a shrewd twinkle in her keen grey +eye. "Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, with large possibilities of +self-appreciation. But he had nothing to do with this invitation, though +he flatters himself he had. He's not without ability, but he can't teach +his grandmother to suck eggs. I'll tell you why you are here. I pride +myself upon having an eye for a winner, and I pick you as one, and +that's why you are to sing in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a pretty +voice. She is a niece of a very dear friend, and for a time I thought +she might do. But she has no soul, no passion, and music, like a man, +must have passion. Music without passion is a crime against art. So I +just told Duff, he's chairman, you know, of the Board of Directors, that +she was impossible and that we must have you. I have heard you sing, my +dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat and eye. You +have them all. You have the voice and the temperament and the passion. +You'll be great some day, much greater than I, and, with the hope of +sharing your glory, I have decided to put my money on you." + +Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, but +Mrs. Duff Charrington waved them aside. + +"Purely selfish," she said, "purely selfish, my dear. Now don't let +Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner, too. He has force. He'll be +a power in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind of brute, +of course, but he'll succeed, for he has wealth and social prestige, +neither to be sniffed at, my child. But, especially, he has driving +power. But I'll have my eye on him this trip, so enjoy your outing." + +Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of the +finesse of diplomacy in the manipulation of her company. Her method was +straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent attempts of +Dr. Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure Iola for a +tete-a-tete, she called out across the deck in the ears of the whole +company, "See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying to monopolise our +star. We're out for a good time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane is +not your property. She belongs to us all." Thenceforth Dr. Bulling, with +what grace he could summon, had to content himself with just so much of +Iola's company as his hostess decided he should have. + +It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a series +of sensations altogether new and delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like +a great white-winged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, the humming +breeze, the swift rush through the parting waves, the sense of buoyant +life with which the yacht seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. She +abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and became the life and soul +of the whole party. And were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two +days' outing would have been for Iola among the happiest experiences +of her life. But Barney's last look across the widening strip of water +pursued her and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more +terrible than rage. Iola shuddered as she recalled it. She read in it +the despair of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, and as the +end of her trip drew near her dread increased. + +Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in the +girl during the short voyage, fail to observe her uneasiness and to +guess the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at the dock, +Iola detected Barney. + +"There he is," she cried under her breath. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, "it is not +possible that you are afraid, and of a man! I would give something to +have that feeling. It is many years since a man could inspire me with +any feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. They are really silly +creatures and most helpless. Let me manage him. Introduce him to me and +leave him alone." + +Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more than +justified. Through the crowd and straight for Iola came Barney, his +face haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever manoeuvre Mrs. +Duff Charrington swung her massive form fair in his path and, turning +suddenly, faced him squarely. Iola seized the moment to present him. +Barney made as if to brush her aside, but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not +of the kind to be lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less by a young +man of Barney's inexperience. + +"Ah, young man," she exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before." The +strong grip of her hand and the loud tone of her voice at once arrested +his progress and commanded his attention. "I saw you get your medal +the other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave about you--John +Charrington, you know, medical student, first year. He is something of a +fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of course, won't have noticed him." + +Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen grey +eyes compelling his attention, then, with an effort, he collected his +wits. + +"Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. Don't +see much of him." + +"No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The dissecting-room +wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's straight-going, however, but he +can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes considerably, +the Lord pity his patients." She became aware of a sudden hardening in +Barney's face and a quick flash in his eye. Without turning her head she +knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching Iola from the other side. She +put her hand on Barney's arm. "Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane to my +carriage there? Bulling," she said, turning sharply upon the doctor, +"will you help Daisy to collect my stuff? I am sure things will be +left on the yacht. There are always some things left. Servants are so +stupid." There was that in her voice that made Bulling stand sharply at +attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he was leading Iola +and Mrs. Duff Charrington to the waiting carriage. + +"So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we would +have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle," said Mrs. Duff Charrington as he +closed the carriage door. + +"I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in with +some of your party." There was war in Barney's tone. + +"Good Heavens, young man!" cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no way +disturbed, "you don't expect to make the world fit in with you or you +with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. But you +will be glad to know that Miss Lane has made us all have a very happy +little holiday." + +"Of that I am sure," cried Barney gravely. + +"And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good time." + +"It is for that some of us have lived." Barney's deep voice, thrilling +with sad and tender feeling, brought the quick tears to Iola's eyes. +To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even Mrs. Duff +Charrington was touched. She leaned over the carriage door toward him. + +"Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane home to dinner. Come with us." + +Barney felt the kindly tone. "Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it would give +none of us pleasure, and I have much to do. I am leaving to-morrow for +Baltimore." + +Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced at her +white face. + +"Young man," she said sternly, leaning out toward him and looking Barney +in the eyes, "don't be a fool. The man that would, from pique, willingly +hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward." + +"Mrs. Charrington," replied Barney in a steady voice, "I have just come +from an operation by which a little girl, an only child, has lost her +arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, but from love. +It is because it is best, that I go to-morrow. Good-bye." Then turning +to Iola he said, "I shall see you to-night." He lifted his hat and +turned away. + +"Drive home, Smith," said Mrs. Charrington sharply; "the others will +find their way." + +"Take me home," whispered Iola, with dry lips. + +"Do you love him?" said Mrs. Duff Charrington, taking the girl's hand in +hers. + +"Ah, yes. I never knew how much." + +"Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far and +he is only a man." Mrs. Duff Charrington's tone did not indicate a high +opinion of the masculine section of humanity. "You'll just come with me +for dinner and then I shall send you home. Thank God, we can still eat." + +For some minutes they drove along in silence. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her thought, +"that's a man for you--thinks the whole world moves round the axis of +his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still," she mused, "a +man isn't everything, although once I--but never mind, there is always a +way of bringing them to time." + +"You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola; "nothing can ever +change him." + +"Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the less it is +sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the trouble?" + +"No, I think not," said Iola softly. + +"Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for words. +If ever you wish to come to me I shall be ready. Now let us dismiss the +thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder digestion, I have +found, and nothing is quite worth that." + +With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during the +drive and throughout the dinner hour and, indeed, until the moment of +her departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her anxious thoughts, +but with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she succeeded in keeping +them deep in her heart under guard. + +As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night she whispered: + +"Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle anything. Give time a +chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old party." + +And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon the +advice which suited so thoroughly her own habit of mind. That Barney had +made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She would set herself to +gain time, and yet she was fearful of the issue of the interview before +her. The fear and anxiety which she had been holding down for the last +two hours came over her in floods. As she thought of Barney's last words +she found herself searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which +to brace her strength. If he had only been angry! But that sad, tender +solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, +she knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her. + +A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not +the big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before she +reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As +she entered he arose and stood silent. + +"Barney!" she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no reply. + +"Oh, Barney!" she cried again, her voice quivering, "won't you tell me +to come?" + +"Come," he said, holding out his arms. + +With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about +his neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her fast, gently +caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew +quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness +and put her away from him. + +"Go and take off your wet things first," he said. + +"Say you forgive me, Barney," she whispered, putting her arms again +about his neck. + +"That's not the word," he replied sadly; "there's nothing to forgive. +Go, now!" + +She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she +could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold him, and, +what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as she +knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had +upon her and she dreaded lest that influence should become dominant in +this hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets, +and according to that reading the issue would be. + +"I will keep him! I will keep him!" she whispered to herself as she tore +off her wet clothing. "What shall I put on?" She could afford to lose +no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose her simplest gown, a +soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show the +superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving her arms bare to the elbow +and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, full curves where +they flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her hair +and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it as the wind and rain had +tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One +glance she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The +dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her cheeks, the +lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the +night-black masses of her hair--this, and that indescribable but +all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass. + +"Ah, God help me!" she cried, clasping her hands high above her head, +and went forth. + +These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain +the mastery over the surging passion that was sweeping like a tempest +through his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; but as his +eyes fell upon her standing in the soft rose-shaded light of the room, +her attitude of mute appeal, the rare, rich loveliness of her face and +form again swept away all the barriers of his control. She took one step +toward him. With a swift movement he covered his face with his hands and +sank to his chair. + +"O God! O God! O God!" he groaned. "And must I lose her!" + +"Why lose me, Barney?" she said, gliding swiftly to him and dropping to +her knees beside him. "Why lose me?" she repeated, taking his head to +her heaving bosom. + +The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. +Not for himself must he think now, but for her. The touch of self makes +weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his +life in that hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her +knees, set her in a chair, and went back to his place. + +"Barney, let me come to you," she pleaded. "I'm sorry I went--" + +"No," he said, his voice quiet and steady, "you must stay there. You +must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must." + +"Barney," she cried again, "let me explain." + +"Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people are +nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all that +you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. But +that is all past now." + +"What is it, Barney?" she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and +despair in the even, quiet tone. + +"It is this," he replied; "we have come to the end. I must not hold you +any more. For two years I have known. I had not the courage to face it. +But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last two days." + +"Courage, Barney?" + +"Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what a man +must do. And I must think for you. Our lives are already far apart and I +must not keep you longer." + +"Oh, Barney!" cried Iola, her voice breaking, "let me come to you! How +can I listen to you saying such terrible things without your arms about +me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!" + +The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince as +from a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if estimating his strength. Dare +he trust himself? It would make the task infinitely harder to have her +near him, to feel the touch of her hands, the pressure of her body. But +he would save her pain. He would help her through this hour of agony. +How great it was he could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat +down beside her, and took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, +she let herself sink down, with muscles relaxed and eyes closed. + +"Now go on, dear," she whispered. + +"Poor girl! Poor girl!" said Barney, "we have made a great mistake, you +and I. I was not made for you nor you for me." + +"Why not?" she whispered. + +"Listen to me, darling. Do I love you?" + +"Yes," she answered softly. + +"With all my heart and soul?" + +"Yes, dear," she answered again. + +"Better than my own life?" + +"Yes, Barney. Oh, yes," she replied with a little sob in her voice. + +"Now we will speak simple truth to each other," said Barney in a tone +solemn as if in prayer, "the truth as in God's sight." + +She hesitated. "Oh, Barney!" she cried piteously, "must I say all the +truth?" + +"We must, darling. You promise?" + +"Oh-h-h! Yes, I promise." She flung her arms upward about his neck. "I +know what you will ask." + +"Listen to me, darling," he said again, taking down her arms, "this is +what I would say. You have marked out your life. You will follow your +great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you feel you must go. +You love me and you would be my wife, make my home, mother my children +if God should send them to us; but both these things you cannot do, and +meantime you have chosen your great career. Is not this true?" + +"I can't give you up, Barney!" she moaned. + +To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney should +give up his life's work to accompany her in the path she had marked. +Equally to both this would have seemed unworthy of him. + +"Is not this true, Iola?" Barney's voice, in spite of him, grew a little +stern. And though she knew it was at the cost of life she could not deny +it. + +"God gave me the voice, Barney," she whispered. + +"Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your great +art. So it is better that there should be no bond between us." He paused +a moment as if to gather his strength together for a supreme effort. +"Iola, when you were a girl I bound you to me. Now you are a woman, I +set you free. I love you, but you are not mine. You are your own." + +Convulsively she clung to him moaning, "No, no, Barney!" + +"It is the only way." + +"No, not to-night, Barney!" + +"Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an +appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your life +will be full again of other people and other things." He hurried his +words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind +from her present pain. "Your Philharmonic will bring you fame. That +means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great +world." How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had followed +the path she herself had outlined for her feet! He paused, as if to take +breath, then hurried on again as through a task. "And we +will all be proud of you and rejoice in your success and in +your--your--your--happiness." The voice that had gone so bravely and so +relentlessly through the terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, +but only for an instant. He must think of her. "Dick will be here," he +went on, "and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me, +it is the best, Iola, and you will say it some day." + +Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, "No, Barney, you are +not helping me to my best." + +In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no +answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage. + +"And who," she cried, "will help me up and take care of me?" + +Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her +against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon +beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire +to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could +he desert her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way +through the world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his +renunciation that had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her +danger. Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything. +All the great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight +behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe. + +"Could you, Iola," he cried hoarsely, "don't you think you could let me +care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right to guard you? I +can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?" + +Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he +poured forth his soul's desire for her. To work for her, to suffer for +her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her +only for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of his mighty passion, +he poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an inexplicable +psychic law the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The sight of his +weakness brought her strength. For one fleeting moment she allowed her +mind to rest upon the picture his words made of a home, made rich with +the love of a strong man, and sweet with the music of children's voices, +where she would be safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But +only for a moment. Swifter than the play of light there flashed before +her another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, +eager, rapt, listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, swaying, +compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed muscles tone up +into firmness. The force of her ambition was being transmitted along +those subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and mind and body into one +complex whole, into the very sinews and muscles of her frame. She had +hold of herself again. She would set herself to gain time. + +"Let us wait, Barney," she said, "let us take time." + +An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. What a +weak fool he had been and how he had been thinking of himself! He sat +up, straight and strong, his own man again. + +"Forgive me, darling," he said, a faint, wan smile flitting across his +face. "I was weak and selfish. I allowed myself to think for a moment +that it might be, but now I know we must say good-bye to-night." + +"Good-bye?" The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was so +stubborn. "Surely, Barney, it is unreasonable to ask me to decide at +once to-night." + +He rose to his feet and lifted her gently. + +"You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and it +lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly away." His voice was toneless, +passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had left him +exhausted. His apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. It was a +supreme moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan her soul's +fires into flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out of her +life, but there was no acute sense of laceration. The inevitable had +come to pass. A silence, dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside +the storm was lashing the wet leaves against the window. + +"If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will bring +me. I shall be waiting, waiting. Remember that, always waiting." He +tightened his arms about her and without passion, but gravely, tenderly +he lifted her face. "Good-bye, my love," he said, and kissed her lips. +"My heart's love!" Once more he kissed her. "My life! My love!" + +She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but for +the eyes that held his fast and for the lips that gave him back his +kisses. Gently he placed her on the couch. + +"God keep you, darling," he whispered, bending over her and touching her +dusky hair with his lips. + +He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a heavy +load, her eyes following his every step, and reached the door. There he +paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the door, halted yet an +instant, but without turning he passed out of her sight. + +An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney had +left her, dazed and tearless. + +"He is gone," she said dully. + +Margaret turned upon her. "Gone? Yes. I have just seen him." + +"And I love him," continued Iola, looking up at her with heavy eyes. + +"Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for your +paltry, selfish ambition you send from you a man whose shoes you are not +worthy to tie!" + +"Oh, Margaret!" cried Iola piteously. + +"Don't talk to me!" she replied, her lip quivering. "I can't bear to +look at you!" and she passed into her room. + +It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded lightly +the love she herself would have died to gain. But long after Iola had +sobbed herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful for her own +pain and for that of the man she loved better than her life. + +But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret would +not have it. + +"Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give him +pain. Do you want him to despise you and me to hate you?" + +But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff Charrington +who fortunately intervened and carried Iola off with her to spend the +afternoon and evening. + +"Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. Bring +your guitar with you." + +Iola demurred. + +"I don't feel like it." + +"Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, but +remember this, the men don't like stale beer." + +This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and lay +aside the role she had unconsciously planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. +Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling animation of +her protegee. + +But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull +out that night there was only dreary, voiceless misery. There was no +pretence at anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of parting +would be the end of all that had been so delightful in their old life. +The days of their long companionship were over, and to both the thought +brought grief that made words impossible. Only Margaret's presence +forced them to self-control. As to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full +measure of her grief, and her quiet, serene courage filled him with +amazed admiration. At length came the call of the bustling, businesslike +conductor, "All aboard!" + +"Good-bye, Margaret," said Barney simply, holding out his hand. But the +girl quietly put back her veil and lifted up her face to him, her brave +blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips only said, +"Good-bye, Barney." + +"Good-bye, dear Margaret," he said again, bending over her and kissing +her. + +"Me, too, Barney," said Dick, his tears openly streaming down his face. +"I'm a confounded baby! But hanged if I care!" + +At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery vanished. He threw +his arms about his brother's neck, crying "Good-bye, Dick, old man. +We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, it's all come +to an end!" + +Already the train was moving. + +"Go, old chap," cried Dick, pushing him away but still clinging to him. +And then, as Barney swung on to the step he called back to them what had +long been in his heart to say. + +"Look after her, will you?" + +"Yes, Barney, we will," they both cried together. And as they stood +gazing through dimming tears after the train as it sped out through the +network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, they felt that a +new bond drew them closer than before. And it was the tightening of that +bond that brought them all the comfort that there was in that hour of +misery unspeakable. + + + + +XIII + +A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + + +The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had +been published. The Juniors were preparing to depart for their summer +work in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting +with calm confidence the indications of the will of Providence as +to their spheres of labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by +certain letters in their possession from leading members of influential +congregations. Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to +tread the weary and humiliating "trail of the black bag," while others +again, to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant +battle, were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and +work in the great West, or in the far lands across the sea. + +Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery +examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student party. The +annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerve-racking +uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of +the most innocuous kind. On the other hand, it might develop features of +a most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this year +was unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery +examination was to be of the more serious type. It was a time of +searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the +session, undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college +life, and more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the +archaic and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these +latter gentlemen the day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning +devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, +failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises are +supposed to afford. For their slender ray of hope that their memory +of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial was very +materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment they might +assign a perfectly correct English version to the wrong Hebrew text. The +result of such mischance they would not allow themselves to contemplate. +On the other hand, however, there was the welcome possibility that they +might be so able to dispose themselves among the orientalists in their +class that a word dropped at a critical moment might save them from this +mischance. And there was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground +of confidence, that the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of +the ever-present possibility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely +jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of oriental +literature. Of course, the examination would also include other +departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and duty of +Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of the +candidates before them. On this score, however, few indulged serious +anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, +both examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty +self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with the Shorter +Catechism received during the plastic years of childhood. + +It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. +On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle +was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the +"sinners" among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the +goal posts where, times without number, he had rescued the college from +the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with which +he carried off his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout +the term, in the college halls after tea, there had been carried on +a series of discussions extending over the whole range of the +"fundamentals," and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and +awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. +Finlay was a huge, gaunt, broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian +by birth, a dialectician by training, and a man of war by the gift of +Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given his +body to the flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the +heretical dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly +surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of +fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to find, in +a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe haven where he might +devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of his faith within the +citadel of orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery that the +same heresies which had driven him from New College had found their +way across the sea and were being championed by a man of such winning +personality and undoubted scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon +Finlayson's mind of these discussions carried on throughout the term was +such that, after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice +to the person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty +to inform the professor in whose department these subjects lay of +the heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, +indeed, of the Canadian Church. + +The report of his interview with the professor came back to college +through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the professor's +son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a +medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately +surrounded by an eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert Duff, +the sworn ally of Mr. Finlayson. + +"Did Finlayson see your father?" inquired Mr. Duff anxiously. + +"Sure thing," answered Tom. + +"And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?" + +"You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!" + +"And what did the professor say?" inquired Mr. Duff, with bated breath. + +"Told him to go to the devil." + +"To what?" gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that the +foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been removed. +It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the "sinners" had +subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the spirit only, and not +the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent professor, that had been +translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son. + +Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies +had reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded +professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. +Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through +Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That +staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it +his duty to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than +retail gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off +his big, bony right hand. + +The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which +gained for him the cognomen of "Squeaky Sandy," and a most irritatingly +persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners were +disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology, +fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding of his +license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the +college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much +heated discussion. + +Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student +parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was +undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his +students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature +generally and of student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle +lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with +very beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole +life was one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper +to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit +and kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The +consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the +backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished +with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey +nooks and corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy +manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered +in the care she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, +brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her +friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, "There +were no last roses in her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took +pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young +men of the college. + +"You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would explain, "to make +the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something to +distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies." + +And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw +themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the +saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures +in absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from +the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party. + +Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but +even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's +college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme +of conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the +sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself +was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to +both of them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret +extract anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For +full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert +Kidd, second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face +and fresh innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of "Baby Kidd," +or more shortly, "Kiddie." + +"Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with +a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly +acquiesced. + +"Well, I'll tell you," he said, adopting a low confidential tone. "I +could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out after +Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till +everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over +the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be quite +safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly +state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't +know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You +believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart +stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is +that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you +believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I +have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. +Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it." + +"Who was it?" inquired Miss Belle. + +"Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Pre-mill, +too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old +Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every +doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off +the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the +whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in +Scotland." + +"No," said Miss Belle, "I don't know. And you don't, either, so you +needn't stop and try to tell us." + +"I don't, eh?" said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in +a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's +black eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you +understand." + +"Hear him!" said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. "Go on. We are +interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?" + +"Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed +to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the brethren +interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their +kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr. +Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching investigation! +We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines +of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is +nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on +shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet +to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to +take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' +stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you +a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head +go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a +convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around +and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't +suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the +theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at +once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out +of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a +roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery +to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the +desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, +I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a +regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from +Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he +could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what +Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr. +Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for +the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus +with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all +at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a +pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my +pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every +doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And +I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how +slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then +Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the +result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's where he is +now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph +wants him." + +"Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced +old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her son should +be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. + +"Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done +with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a row at the +college!" continued Kiddie. "Old Father Finlayson there," nodding across +the room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be +an extremely interesting conversation with his hostess, "orthodox old +beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You +know he has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible +themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much +for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle +came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by +the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most +iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever +with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in +tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, will you!" + +The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror +the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers +adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling +contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which +his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of +Canada. + +"You may laugh," continued Bob. "So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he +can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! He's all white, +and he has the heart of a gentleman!" Little Kidd's voice went shaky and +his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of +deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never been so +near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She +showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson "the +time of his life," as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed, +did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and +good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to +inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was +to "come out to him as soon as he was placed." He was surprised, +but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no +difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper hour, +however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded +her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr. +Finlayson "the time of his life." But not a word could she extract from +him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a +Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a +density of ignorance unparalleled in her experience, until she let it +be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. +Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at +the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious concern for his +future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, +Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, +during the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he +had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's +mind, her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the +opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true +from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did +she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried +back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, but +withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the +young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this +theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly +to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the +professors might cease giving parties. + +The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For +if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only +increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths +more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of +darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows, +and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he +light upon a friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him +to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze +his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to +dwell. And he may well thank God if his path lead him some whither where +there is space enough to work his day's work and light enough to live +by. + +With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend +who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be +quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side +Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to +right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to +wait till the better day dawned. + + + + +XIV + +WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + + +The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and +its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and +upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks +and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. +Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the +immortals to whom has come the "vision splendid" and whose are the +voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call +that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such +words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic +value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for. + +Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But +there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, +tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of +business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call +themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism. + +And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of +politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here +the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime +puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, +from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the +delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the +masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that +sticks and stings where it sticks. + +The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type +that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called +by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and +nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its +staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody +cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly +established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, +in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the +uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less +perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study +euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial +deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business +of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement +energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not +successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can +give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be +cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared. + +It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily +Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the +part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, +therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university +training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the +University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse +English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his +apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime +and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it +is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer +sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his +life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would +stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar +that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that +immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its +place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power +to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, +came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. +On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from +those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high +souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance. + +"We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs. Macdougall +would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should +betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. "But I doubt not he is +very busy with his new duties." + +"Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her +voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed, +nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the +broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain +its own. + +"Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the little +lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying +that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. + +But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for +an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the +professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more +often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had +grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with +distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she +fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they +made entrance and to abide. + +The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming +sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining +waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all +save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which +they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such +painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out +of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and +castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time. + +A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at +times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some +new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without +remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving +freely her great voice and her superb body, now developed into the full +splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about +her and gave her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the +while of the very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the +shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she +could tickle their senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies +and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their lusts and +despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh +curves and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she +revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal, +maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought +destruction among men and fury among women. + +To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, +Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her +preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of +her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, +but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was +established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those +conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise +old world has proved, man and woman with the dread potencies of passion +slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, +as by their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily +association. Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the masters of +the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and +was at present devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. +Together they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's +connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which +society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together. +Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon +him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from +her physical charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her +presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his weakness; but +once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power +reasserted itself. The mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its +terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation of +Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's +love for her had not changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing +intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love +of his closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile +keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome +fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life +devoted to well doing. + +Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something +did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's +life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had +waited, longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, +until suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it +was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, +so tender, and withal so humble, that even across the space that these +months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred +and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to +Margaret and read her such parts as she thought necessary. "A year has +gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. +Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been +severe. If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, +shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had hoped +a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an +assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in +the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all that my +work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but +into your eyes--I may be able to live without you, but I cannot live my +best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait +even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me +to come." + +"How can I answer a letter like that?" said Iola to Margaret. + +"How?" exclaimed Margaret. "Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to him. +Anything to get him to you." + +Iola mused a while. "He wants me to marry him and to keep his house." + +"Yes," said Margaret, "he does." + +"Housekeeping and babies, ugh!" shuddered Iola. + +"Yes," cried Margaret, "ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and +Barney! God pity your poor soul!" + +Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion. + +"What do you mean?" she cried. "Why do you speak so?" + +"Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your +woman's heart?" + +From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was +growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They +were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be +supper. And when he had taken her home she would show him the letter. + +On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he +suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the office. + +"Let us run in for a moment," he said. + +"I think I had better wait you here," replied Iola. + +"Nonsense!" cried Dick. "Don't be a baby. Come in." + +Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew +forth Barney's letter. + +"Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she read over such portions of +Barney's letter as she thought necessary. + +"Well?" she said, as Dick remained silent. + +"Well," replied Dick, "what's your answer to be?" + +"You know what he means," said Iola a little impatiently. "He wants me +to marry him at once and to settle down." + +"Well," said Dick, "why not?" + +"Now, Dick," cried Iola, "do you think I am suited for that kind of +life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a house tidy, +the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the long, quiet +evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his patients while +I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the great world +forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But I must +have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!" + +"Forgotten?" cried Dick. "Why should you be forgotten? Barney's wife +could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. And, after +all," added Dick, in a musing tone, "to live with Barney ought to be +good enough for any woman." + +"Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!" she cried, making a little moue. "You +are quite irresistible!" she added, leaning toward him with a mocking +laugh. + +"Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical charm. +"We must get away." + +"But you haven't helped me, Dick," she cried, drawing nearer to him and +laying her hand upon his arm. + +The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face +and form intoxicated him. + +He knew he was losing control of himself. + +"Come, Iola," he said, "let us go." + +"Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling into his face and +leaning toward him. + +"How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, springing up. "I only know +you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a devil! What has +come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? Do you know," +he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath coming hard and +fast, "I can hardly keep my hands off you. We must go. I must go. Come!" + +"Poor child," mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, "is it afraid it +will get hurt?" + +"Stop it, Iola!" cried Dick. "Come on!" + +"Come," she mocked, still leaning toward him. + +Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon +her mocking face. "Kiss me!" he commanded. + +Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing +him steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, passionate lure +of her lustrous eyes. + +"Kiss me!" he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him still +with her gaze. + +"God in heaven!" cried Dick. "Go away!" He made to push her from him. +She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to sink in his arms +with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed her to him, and +again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face. + +Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing +through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not the +opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For +a single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death +itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, +the two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their +ghastly faces. + +"Barney!" they cried together. + +Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." The words seemed to come +from some far distance. "I couldn't wait. I came for my answer, Iola. +I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have lost +you! And"--here he turned to Dick--"oh, my God! My God! I have lost my +brother, too!" he turned to depart from him. + +"Barney," cried Dick passionately, "there was no wrong! There was +nothing beyond what you saw!" + +"Was that all?" inquired his brother quietly. + +"As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!" + +Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and +picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed +it to his brother with his finger upon a verse. + +"Read!" he said. "You know your Bible. Read!" His voice was terrible and +compelling in its calmness. + +Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed +to sear his eyeballs as he read, "Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust +after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." +Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word. + +"I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible voice. "But what need? +To me you are already dead." + +When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank +into a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him stood Iola, +pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She +was the first to recover. + +"Dick," she said softly, laying her hand upon his head. + +He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot iron and had burned to +the bone. + +"Don't touch me!" he cried in vehement frenzy. "You are a devil! And I +am in hell! In hell! do you hear?" He caught her by the arm and shook +her. "And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no hell?" He turned again +to her. "And for you, for this, and this, and this," touching her +hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with his finger, "I have lost my +brother--my brother--my own brother--Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned! +Damned! Damned!" + +She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, "Oh, Dick, +spare me! Take me home!" + +"Yes, yes," he cried in mad haste, "anywhere, in the devil's name! Come! +Come!" He seized her wrap, threw it upon her shoulders, caught up his +hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her out. + +"Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?" And out of the +embers of his passion there kindled a fire that night that burned with +unquenchable fury for many a day. + + + + +XV + +THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + + +The Superintendent was spending the precious hours of one of his rare +visits at home in painful plodding through his correspondence. For it +was part of the sacrifice his work demanded, and which he cheerfully +made, that he should forsake home and wife and children for his work's +sake. The Assembly's Convener found him in the midst of an orderly +confusion of papers of different sorts. + +"How do you do, sir?" The Superintendent's voice had a fine burr about +it that gripped the ear, and his hand a vigour and tenacity of hold +that gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's Convener and nearly +brought the little man to the floor. "Sit down, sir, and listen to this. +Here are some of the compensations that go with the Superintendent's +office. This is rich. It comes from my friend, Henry Fink, of the +Columbia Forks in the Windermere Valley. British Columbia, you +understand," noticing the Convener's puzzled expression. "I visited the +valley a year ago and found a truly deplorable condition of things. +Men had gone up there many years ago and settled down remote from +civilization. Some of them married Indian wives and others of them +ought to have married them, and they have brought up families in the +atmosphere and beliefs of the pagans. Would you believe it, I fell in +with a young man on the trail, twenty years of age, who had never heard +the name of our Saviour except in oaths? He had never heard the story of +the Cross. And there are many others like him. At the Columbia Forks the +only institution that stands for things intellectual is a Freethinkers' +Club, the president of which is a retired colonel of the British Army, a +man of fine manners, of some degree of intelligence and reading, but, +I have reason to believe, of bad life. His is the dominant influence in +the community if we except my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known +locally, 'Hank Fink.' Hank is a character, I assure you. A Yankee from +the Eastern States, the son of a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs +a store which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, and miners +with the necessaries of life, and keeps a stopping place. Is postmaster, +too. In fact, Hank is pretty much the whole village. He has lived in +that country some fifteen years. Has a good Canadian wife, and a flock +of small children. He is a rara avis in that country from the fact that +he hates whiskey. He hates it almost as much as he does Colonel Hicks +and his Freethinking Club. When I visited the village, for some reason +or other Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in him possibly recognising +kinship. He gave me his store to preach in, took me all about the +country, and in a week had a mission organized on a sound financial +basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, and very effective. He +estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this fact to the +man, who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into Hank's +motives, but it seemed to give him considerable satisfaction to learn +that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful rage at the +proposal to establish a Christian mission in that remote valley. It +grieved the Colonel to think that after so many years of immunity they +should at last be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive +appendage to an effete civilization. I noticed that Hank's English +always broke down in referring to the Colonel. Well, we sent in +Finlayson a year ago this spring, you remember. Strong man, good +preacher, conscientious fellow. Thought he would do great work. You know +Finlayson? Well, this is the result." Here he picked up Hank's letter. +"This would hardly do for the Home Mission report," continued the +Superintendent, with a twinkle in his keen grey eyes: + + +"COLUMBIA FORKS, WINDERMERE, B. C. + +"DEAR SIR:--I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you know how +things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you this station is goin' to +the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it hadn't far to go.] +Your preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer some +people, but he ain't our style. [Mr. Finlayson would doubtless agree +with that.] He means well, but he ain't eddicated up to the West. You +remember how we got the boys all corralled up nice an' tame when you +was here. Well, he's got 'em wild. Couldn't reach 'em with a shotgun. He +throwed hell fire at 'em till they got scart an' took to the hills till +you can't get near 'em no more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit +comin'--I don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come, anyway--except +me an' Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can always count on the +dog. Now, sir, this is your show, not mine. But I was born an' raised a +Presbyteryn down East, an' though I haven't worked hard at the business +for some years, it riles me some to hear Col. Hicks an' a lot of durned +fools that has got smarter than God Almighty Himself shootin' off +against the Bible an' religion an' all that. [We needn't read too +closely between the lines at this point.] Send a man that don't smell +so strong of sulphur an' brimstone, who has got some savey, an' who will +know how to handle the boys gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a +leetle wild. Send him along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar +out of that bunch of fools. + +"Yours most respeckfully, + +"HENRY FINK. + +"P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you could arrange +to spend a month or two I'll guarantee we will have 'em all in nice +shape. + +"Yours respeckfully, + +"HENRY FINK." + + +"I don't think you can count much from the support of a man like that," +said the assembly's Convener; "I don't think he shows any real interest +in the work." + +"My dear sir," said the Superintendent, "don't you know he is the +Chairman of our Board of Management, a most regular attendant upon +ordinances and contributes most liberally to our support? And while +these things in the East wouldn't necessarily indicate a change of +heart, they stand for a good deal west of the Great Divide. And, at any +rate, in these matters we remember gratefully the word that is written, +'He that is not against us is on our part.'" + +"Well, well," said the Assembly's Convener, "it may be so. It may be so. +But what's to be done with Finlayson? And where will you get a successor +for him?" + +"We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good man and will do excellent +work in other fields. But where to get a man for Windermere is the +question. Do you know anyone?" + +The Assembly's Convener shook his head sadly. + +"There appears to be no one in sight," said the Superintendent. "I have +a number of applications here," picking up a good-sized bundle of neatly +folded papers, "but they are hardly the kind to suit conditions at +Windermere. Numbers of them feel themselves specially called of God +to do mission work in large centres of population. Others are chiefly +anxious about the question of support. One man would like to be in touch +with a daily train service, as he feels it necessary to keep in touch +with the world by means of the daily newspaper. A number are engaged who +want to be married. Here's Mr. Brown, too fat. No move in him. Here's +McKay--good man, earnest, but not adaptable, like Finlayson; won't do. +Here's Garton--fine fellow, would do well, but hardly strong enough. So +what are you to do? I have gone over the whole list of available men and +I cannot find one suitable for Windermere." + +In this the Assembly's Convener could give him no help. Indeed, from few +did the Superintendent receive assistance in the securing of men for his +far outposts. + +Assistance came to him from an unexpected quarter. He was to meet the +Assembly's Convener and some members of the Committee that evening at +Professor Macdougall's for tea. The Superintendent's mind could not be +kept long away from the work that was his very life, and at the table +the conversation turned to the question of the chronic difficulty of +securing men for frontier work, which had become acute in the case of +Windermere. Margaret, who had been invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in +the dispensing of her hospitality, was at once on the alert. Why could +not Dick be sent? If only that Presbytery difficulty could be got over +he might go. That he would be suited for the work she was well assured, +and equally certain was she that it would be good for him. + +"It would save him," Margaret said to herself with a sharp sting at +her heart, for she had to confess sadly that Dick had come to the point +where he needed saving. She had learned from Iola the whole miserable +story of Barney's visit, of his terrible indictment of his brother and +the final break between them, but she had seen little of him during the +past six months. From that terrible night Dick had gone down in physical +and in moral health. Again and again he had written Barney, but there +had been no reply. Hungrily he had come to Margaret for word of his +brother, hopeful of reconciliation. But of late he had given up hope +and had ceased to make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy, +remorseful grief into which Margaret felt she dare not intrude. He +occasionally met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all +intimacy between them. His only relief seemed to be in his work, and +he gave himself to that with such feverish energy that his health +broke down, and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his +mother. Thence he had written once to say that his days were one long +agony. She remembered one terrible sentence. "Everything here, the +house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, the woods, the +fields, everything, everything shrieks 'Barney' at me till I am like to +go mad. I must get away from here to some place where he has never been +with me." + +It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent that +evening for a few minutes alone. In whatever company he was, he was +easily the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days of +the Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he was not a man to forget +his friends. He had the rare gift of gripping them to him with "hooks +of steel." Hence, he had kept in touch with her during the latter years, +pitying the girl's loneliness as much as his admiration for her cheery +courage and her determined independence would allow him. When Margaret +found her opportunity she wasted no time. + +"I have a man for you for Windermere," were her opening words. + +"You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you willing to +spare him? Few young ladies are. But you are different from most." The +Superintendent was ever a gallant. + +"You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?" Her words came +hurriedly and there was a slight flush on her cheek. "There was some +trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. Naismith +was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I mean--we have always been +friends," she hastened to add, explaining her deepening blush, "you know +his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since that day in Presbytery +he has never been the same. His work--he is on the Daily Telegraph, +you know--takes him away from--from--well, from Church and that kind of +thing, and from all his friends." + +"I understand," said the Superintendent, with grave sympathy. + +"And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great +trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may as well tell you. The +brothers--you remember the doctor, Barney?" + +"Very well," replied the Superintendent. "Strong man. Where is he now?" + +"He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were everything to each other +since little fellows together. Oh, it was beautiful! I never saw +anything like it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, a terrible +misunderstanding. Dick was in the wrong." The Superintendent shot a keen +glance at her. "No," she said, answering his glance, the colour in her +face deepening into a vivid scarlet, "it was not about me, not at all. I +can't tell you about it, but that, and his trouble with the Presbytery, +and all the rest of it are just killing him. And I know if he got back +to his own work again and away from home it would save him, and his +mother, too, for she is breaking her heart. Couldn't you get him out +there?" + +The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had been for her to tell the +story, and the sight of her eager face, the big blue eyes bright, and +the lips quivering with the intensity of her feeling, deeply touched +him. + +"It might be possible," he said. + +"Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty," cried Margaret, with a desperate +note in her voice. + +"That could be arranged, I have no doubt," said the Superintendent, +brushing aside that difficulty with a wave of the hand. "The question +is, would he be willing to go?" + +"Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him and if you told him those +stories about the need there is, I am sure he would go. Could you see +him? There is no use to write. I do wish you could. He is such a fine +boy and his mother is so set upon his being a minister." The blue eyes +were bright with tears she was too brave to let fall. + +"My dear young lady," said the Superintendent, his deep voice growing +deeper under the intensity of his feelings, "I would do much for your +sake and for your mother's. I am to visit your home early next month. +I shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, and I promise you I shall get +him if it is possible." + +The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart deprived the girl of +speech, but she shyly put out her hand and touched the long, sinewy +fingers that lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. Instantly the +fingers closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong that it seemed to +drive the conviction into her heart that somehow this strong man would +find a way by which Dick could be saved. + + +How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent overcame Dick's +objections, Margaret never learned. But the full bitter tale of reasons +against his ever taking up his work again, with which Dick had made +himself so familiar during the past dark, dreary months, were one by +one removed, and when the Superintendent left the Old Stone Mill he had +secured his missionary for Windermere. It gave the Superintendent acute +satisfaction to remember the flash of his missionary's blue eyes as, in +answer to the warning, "You will have a hard fight of it, remember," the +reply came, "A hard fight? Thank God!" + +Before the year was over it fell that the Windermere valley came to be +one of the mission fields that gladdened the hearts of the Home Mission +Committee of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of its doughty +Convener. In the Convener's study, eight by ten, the report from the +Windermere field was discussed with the ubiquitous and indefatigable +Superintendent. + +"An extremely gratifying record," said the Superintendent, "especially +when one considers its disorganized condition a year ago." + +"Yes, it's a good report," assented the Convener. "We had practically no +support a year ago. Our strongest man--" + +"Fink?" + +"Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's enthusiasm and devotion were +hardly of what you would call the purest type. But whatever his motive, +he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is a splendid testimony +of the power of the Gospel to see the change in that same shrewd old +sinner. Yes, sir, give the Gospel a chance and it will do its work." The +Convener, who hated all cant and canting phrases with a perfect hatred, +rarely allowed himself the luxury of an emotional outbreak. But the case +of Hank Fink seemed to reach the springs of feeling that he kept hidden +in the deep heart of him. + +"So Boyle has done well?" said the Superintendent. "I am very glad of +it. Very glad of it, for his own sake, for his mother's, and for the +sake of another." + +"Yes," replied the Convener, "Boyle has done a fine bit of work. He +lived all summer on his horse's back and in his canoe, followed the +prospectors up into the gulches and the miners to their mines, if you +can call them mines, left a magazine here, a book there, a New Testament +next place. And once he got his grip on a man, he never let him go. Hank +told me how he found a man sick in a camp away up in a gulch and how +he stayed with him for more than a week, then brought him down on his +horse's back to the Forks. Yes, it's a good record. A church built +at the north end of the field, another almost completed at the Forks. +Really, it was very fine," continued the Convener, allowing his +enthusiasm to rise. "It renews one's faith in the reality of religion to +see a man jump into his work like that. They didn't pay him his salary +the first half year, but he omitted to mention that in his report." + +The Superintendent sat up straight. "Is he behind yet?" + +"No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and explained that if the field +failed it was Boyle that would suffer. His language--well," the Convener +laughed reminiscently, "you have seen Hank?" + +"Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've read him. But let us hope +that his deeds will atone in a measure for his broken English. But," +continued the Superintendent, "you have had Boyle ordained, have you +not?" + +"Yes. We got him ordained," replied the Convener, beginning to chuckle. +A delighted, choking chuckle it was. Any missionary who had worked in +his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the dark by that chuckle. +It began, if one were quick to observe, with a wrinkling about the +corners of the sharp blue eyes, then became audible in a succession of +small explosions that seemed to have their origin in the region of the +esophagus and to threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was +found in a wide-throated peal that subsided in a second series of small +explosions and gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the +region of the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners +of the blue eyes as a kind of warning that the whole process might be +repeated upon sufficient provocation. "Yes, we got him ordained," he +repeated when the chuckle had passed. "I was glad of your explanatory +note about him. It guided us in our arrangements for examination." + +"What happened?" inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. He dearly +loved a yarn, and he sorely hated to lose any of the more humorous +incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they brought him, +but also because they furnished him with ammunition for his Eastern +campaigns. + +"Well, it was funny," said the Convener, his lips twitching and his eyes +wrinkling, "though at one time it looked like an Assembly case with +all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our latest +importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got wind of +Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in the East. McPherson is a fine +fellow and doing good work." + +"Yes," assented the Superintendent, "he's a fine fellow, but his +conscience gives him a hard time now and then and works over time for +other People." + +"Well," continued the Convener, "McPherson came to me about the matter +in very considerable anxiety. I put him off, consulted with McTavish and +Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man to lose, and as to +his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far as we could learn. So +it happened"--here the Convener pulled himself up short to suppress the +chuckle that threatened--"it happened that just as the examination +was beginning McPherson was called out, and before he had returned the +trials for license and ordination had been sustained. I think on the +whole McPherson was relieved, but there were some funny moments after he +came back into court." + +"Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West," said the Superintendent. +"There's no time for it. Some of the Eastern Presbyteries have too many +men with more time on their hands than sense in their heads." + +"Certainly there was no time lost in this case," replied the Convener. +"We knew Boyle's scholarship was right. We knew his heart was sound. We +knew he was doing good work for us and we knew we wanted him. We were +not anxious to know anything else." + +"What we want for the West," said the Superintendent, his voice +vibrating in a deeper tone, "is men who have the spirit of the Gospel +with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with tact +to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, more or less, won't hurt +them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other fellow's." + +"In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. It +gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with all heretics. It was that more +than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club." + +"Ah," said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again on the +scent, "I didn't hear that." + +"Yes," said the Convener, "Fink told me about it. Boyle went to +their meetings. He found them revelling in cheap scepticism of the +Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a working +theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to--his real attitude, mind +you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of their positions and, +as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water and had them froggin' for +their lives. He was the biggest Freethinker in the bunch.' They invited +him to give a series of lectures. He did so, and that settled the +Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for doubting anything, and I +believe that's right." The Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and, +consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. "Let a man doubt till +he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them doubt, but he +insisted that they should have something positive to live by." + +"Our friend Hank," said the Superintendent, "would be delighted." + +"Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his mirth,' +for Boyle got after him with the same demands." + +The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his missionary. +"That's the kind of man we want. He ought to do well in your railroad +field." + +"Yes," replied the Convener hesitatingly. "You think he ought to go? +Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't care to go in there after Boyle +is removed." + +"It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That +railroad work is most pressing, and only a man like Boyle will do. There +will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter +between Macleod and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have had +correspondence with Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's Nest line, +and he is not unfriendly, though he would prefer us to send in medical +missionaries. But that work he and his contractors ought to look after." + +"There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I fear, +from all reports," replied the Convener. "By the way, there is a young +English doctor working on that eastern division from the MaCleod end +who is making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I believe. He began as a +navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, and the doctor a poor drunken +fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long as he could, then finally +threw him out of the camp and installed himself in his place. The +contractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the medical work in +that direction. Murray told me the most wonderful tales about him. He +must be a remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't +have it near the camp. You ought to look him up when you go in." + +"I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people ought +to feel disgraced in employing them. They draw their fifty cents per man +a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a delicate matter, but I +shall take this up with Fahey when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but +he is fair and he won't stand any nonsense." + +"And you think Boyle ought to go in?" + +"Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of +men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of things. +Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?" + +"No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he came +to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me for weeks. +He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life." + +The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare +gift of silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break no +confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and +after he had sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already +written, on the table and sat back in his chair indulging himself in a +few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept kitchen in the Old +Stone Mill and, bending over his letter a woman, dark-faced and stern, +her wavy, black hair heavily streaked with white, for during the past +years the sword had pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her +tragic Highland face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With +glad heart she had given him up, and now, with humble joy, she would +read that her offering had been accepted. + +The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with all +its beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl pleading for her +friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her +invincible faith, "I know that if he got at his own work again it would +save him." He could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of her +fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be +fulfilled. He had kept his word and her faith had not been put to shame. + + + + +XVI + +THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + + +"Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick +himself ye're dodgin'." + +Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan +camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos. + +"Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill +alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's +over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be +praised! He's there yit," said Tommy to himself. "We're on the dump +now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av +Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!" + +The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush +roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath their +feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was +driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared +nothing for himself. His concern was for the man lying under the buffalo +robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless +lope, encouraged by the cheery admonitions and the cracking whip of +their driver. + +"Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey. +I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste." + +He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a +flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the sick man. + +"Here, Scotty," he said coaxingly, "take another taste. It'll put life +into ye." The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, choked hard, then +shook his head. "Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye swally at all? An' +the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need +it an' we're not far aff now." Once more the sick man made a desperate +effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, then turned away his +head. The tender-hearted little Irishman covered him over carefully and +climbed into his seat. "He couldn't swally it," he said to himself in an +awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, "Begorra, an' it's near +the Kingdom he must be!" To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of +approaching dissolution that a man should reject the contents of his +flask. He gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos +all the speed they had. "Come on, now, me bhoys!" he shouted through +the gale, "what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than +yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, +thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're beginin' to move! Hooray!" + +So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came +out into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the lights of the +new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1. + +"Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought +ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten +howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life +into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?" But there was no movement +in response. "Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!" He stood up over +his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at +full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the +driving wind. "Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an' +the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at +hand!" + +Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the +various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building, +the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the +glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the "red +lights," the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in +British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through +the snowy night. + +At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first +saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying +out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" Swipey, the +saloon-keeper, came himself to the door. + +"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked. + +"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, +Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive +at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he +found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?" + +"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?" + +"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys." + +Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty +suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!" + +"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor." + +"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with +'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp." + +"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here, +min, let's git him in." + +"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper. + +"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!" + +"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry +murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the +bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. +"What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? +How do you know what he's got?" + +"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer +dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money +ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he +cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!" + +Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar +of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men +with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for +which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western +professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair +of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair +of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from +his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the +last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had +a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made +but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way +to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time +to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, +colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set +and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full +of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it. + +"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not +a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor +remained unmoved. + +"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty. + +"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who +had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but +who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn. + +"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to +death, an' we don't know what to do with him." + +The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along +soon." + +"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to +death." + +The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?" +He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to +assert itself. + +"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't +swallow. An' we can't git him in." + +The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to +quit." + +A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal. + +"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is +about to lose a bone. "You've got to give us a chance." + +"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this +tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece. +I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a +dollar, and quit. Come on." + +The greatness of the opportunity staggered them. + +Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!" "Give us +your cards!" Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made +up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless +excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake. + +"Now, then, show down," growled "Mexico." + +The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their +hands. He had won. With an oath "Mexico" made a grab for the pile, +reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the +doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak "Mexico" was +lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair. + +"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," said +the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them +down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?" + +"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The +doctor passed him on a run. + +"What does this mean?" he cried. "Why haven't you got him inside +somewhere?" + +"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the bloody haythen +wudn't let him in." + +"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the +saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door. + +"He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?" + +"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes. Here, +take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now." + +Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to +do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door. + +"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick +about it." + +Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh? Want a +bath in it next, I suppose." + +"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, clear +out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty." Without hurry, but +with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed +between heated blankets. "Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his +throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back." + +He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm +to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two +hot-water bottles. + +"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full +of hot water for me." + +"What is it, Doctor?" cried Shorty anxiously. + +"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty +knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift, +deft movements the doctor went about his work. + +"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. +It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed +infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor +chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way." Again he +filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second +injection. "There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a +man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, +don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here +within an hour." Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's +name?" + +"I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I +think." + +"All right. Now, go and get the teamster." + +The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, no +chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!" he muttered, as he +strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get +his breath. + +After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction +of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had +given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase +his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he +could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was +simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man +opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and +leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was +making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear. +Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay. + +"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The eyes +gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the +pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had +followed every movement expressed satisfaction. + +"Do you want me to read it?" + +It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing +gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, +love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's +fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never +moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor +put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. +The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's +bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only +for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face. + +"Something else in your pocket?" + +The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came +to a large worn pocketbook. + +"This?" + +With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket +he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes +of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his +hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to +question. + +"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes." +The eyes remained wide open. "No? You want me to do something for you? +To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall write to your mother and +send all your things and tell them about you." A smile spread over the +face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they +opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The +lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word +"Thank." + +"Thank who? The teamster?" + +The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers. + +"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the +doctor. "Anything else?" + +The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon +the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, +till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, +putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, +"Mother--home," and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling. + +"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And once more +a glad smile lit up the distorted face. + +For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through +the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken +song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the +door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After +the spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his +breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their +appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening +intently, he heard the word, "Pray." The doctor's pale face flushed +quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, "I'm +no good at that." Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and +again the doctor caught the words, "Jesus, tender--." It had been the +doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips. +He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the +eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him to begin. + +"All right," said the doctor through his set teeth, "I'll do it." + +And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn +silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of +that ancient child's prayer, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." At the +third verse, + + + "Let my sins be all forgiven, + Bless the friends I love so well, + Take me when I die to heaven, + Happy there with Thee to dwell." + + +there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content, +and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer +had come, "Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor Scotty! Out from the +sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been +taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more +out forever. + +Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears. +As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply +about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping their +eyes and struggling with their sobs. + +"Confound you, Shorty!" burst forth the doctor wrathfully, "what in the +mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead +man before?" The doctor was clearly in a rage. During the weeks +Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show anything but a +perfectly cold and self-composed face. "Is this the teamster?" continued +the doctor. "Come in here. You see that man? Someone has murdered him. +Who sent him down here through this storm? How long had he been ill? +Have you a doctor up there? Are there any more sick? Why don't you speak +up? What's your name?" In an angry flood the questions poured forth upon +the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. "Why don't you speak?" said the +doctor again. + +Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to +require least thought to answer. "Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An' +sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the +man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles, +an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker." + +"Have you no doctor up there?" + +"Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste that +he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the +pig." + +"Are there any more sick?" + +"Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than +poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!" + +The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking +rapidly, "Go and bring to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say not +a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he said, turning to Tommy, "can +you start back in an hour?" + +"I can that same, if I must." + +"You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get +something to eat." + +In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room. + +"This man," said the doctor, "is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear, +Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, and you +will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate +this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further +danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 +to-night." + +"To-night, doctor!" cried the foreman. "It's blowing a regular blizzard. +Can't you wait till morning?" + +"There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. "The chances are it's +diphtheria." + +In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp +possessed. + +"Have you had something to eat, Tommy?" inquired the doctor, stepping +out from the saloon. + +"That's what I have," replied Tommy. + +"All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep." + +"Not if I know it, begob!" said Tommy. "I'll stay wid yez. It's mesilf +that knows a man whin I see him." + +And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing +to find in the call to a fight with death that excitement without which +it seemed he could not live. + + + + +XVII + +THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + + +At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. +The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed +to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was +almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant +a serious reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract. + +The foreman, Craigin, was a man from "across the line," skilled in +railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a +"driver." He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and +gifted in large measure with the power of command. He knew his business +thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of the machinery and +men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the +line could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men +he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what was called +his "scrap-heap policy." When any part of the machinery ceased to do +first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, +so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must +be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human +nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him +of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to +a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp. +Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they +dreaded to fall under his displeasure. + +The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce +and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry +weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was +not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the +mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After +the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all +waited the warm weather of spring with anxiety. + +On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the +team. + +"Where are your stables, Tommy?" + +"Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house." + +"Good Lord!" murmured the doctor. "How many men have you here?" + +"Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the road." + +"What are your sanitary arrangements?" + +"What's that?" + +"I mean how do you--what are your arrangements for keeping the camp +clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men +living together without some sanitary arrangements." + +"Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the +week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near +the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs." + +"And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?" + +"It is that same." + +"And why was it built so close as that?" + +"Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av +it." + +The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful spot +for a camp right there on that level." + +"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer +ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer +mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom. + +"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would +be a fine spot for the camp." + +"It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is." + +As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he +dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of +that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede +followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat. + +"Hello, Yonie!" cried Tommy. "What's afther gittin' ye up so early?" + +"It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat. + +The doctor sprang from the sleigh. "Let me look at your throat." + +"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede +submitted to the examination. + +The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping +through the treetops, and looked into his throat. "My man, you go right +back to bed quick." + +"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work to-day, boss say. He +not like men sick." + +"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed. Where's +your doctor?" + +"He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," said Tommy, pointing +the way. + +"Never mind now. Where are your sick men?" + +"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de +bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den +seeck mans hall aroun'." + +"What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?" + +"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But +she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's +what you call lak' one beas'." + +The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern +swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the +picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern. + +"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your +throats, men." + +"Dis de docteur, men," said the cook. + +A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with +each examination. + +"Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this +cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp." + +"Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink +of it would make a well man sick." + +"And is there no place else?" + +"No. Unless it's the stables," said another man; "they're not quite so +bad." + +"Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you +something." He opened his bag, took out his syringe. "Here, Yonie, we'll +begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in three minutes he had given +all four an antitoxin injection. "Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way +what's his name?" + +"Hain," said the cook, "dat's his nem." + +"Haines," explained one of the men. + +"Dat's what I say," said the cook indignantly, "Hain." + +The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and, +getting no response, opened it and walked in. + +"Be the powers, Narcisse!" cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking after +the doctor, "it's little I iver thought I'd pity that baste, but Hivin +save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. An' begob, +he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid him." + +But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious +etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping +heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the +outbreak of sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with +an anxious foreboding in regard to the sick man who had been sent out +the day before. Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken +fool in the presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness +that he had found it necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large +and frequent doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly +medical purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When +fully awake he was aware of a young man with a very pale and very stern +face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began: + +"Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp." + +"Who the deuce are you?" replied Haines, staring up at him. + +"They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line." + +"Dr. Bailey?" said Haines, sitting up. "Oh, I've heard of you." His tone +indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, it was his special +chum and confrere who had been ejected from his position in the Gap camp +through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures. + +"You have some very sick men in the camp," repeated Dr. Bailey, his +voice sharp and stern. + +"Oh, a little tonsilitis," replied Haines in an indifferent tone. + +"Diphtheria," said Bailey shortly. + +"Diphtheria be hanged!" replied Haines insolently; "I examined them +carefully last night." + +"They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of +looking into their throats." + +"The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here +to interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your +professional manners?" Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the +intrusion of this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the crime +of his youth that of being guilty of a serious breach of professional +etiquette. + +"I ought to apologize for looking at your patients," said Dr. Bailey. +"I came in thinking I might be of some assistance in dealing with this +outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious to see--" + +"Diphtheria!" blurted Haines. "Nothing of the sort." + +"Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night had it." + +"HAD it?" + +"He died an hour after arriving at No. 1." + +"Dead? Cursed fool! He WOULD go against my will." + +"Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of diphtheria +leave this camp against your will with the company's team?" + +"Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and the +foreman would have him out." + +"There are at least four men going about the camp--they are now in the +cook-house where the breakfast is being prepared--who are suffering from +a severe attack of diphtheria." + +"What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?" said Dr. +Haines petulantly. "No appliances, no means of isolation, no nurses, +nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. What can I +do?" + +"Do you ask me?" The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. "Isolate +the infected at least." + +Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he poured +out a cupful of whiskey from a bottle standing on a convenient shelf. +"Isolate? How can I isolate? There's no building in which--" + +"Make one." + +"Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do you +know where you are? Do you know who is running this camp?" + +"No. But I do know that these men must be isolated within an hour." + +"Impossible! I tell you it is impossible!" + +"Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last night +would result in the verdict of manslaughter. There was no inquest. There +will be on the next man that dies if there is any neglect." + +The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. "Well," +he said, "if you think you can isolate them, go ahead. I'll see the +foreman." + +"Every minute is precious. I gave those four men antitoxin. Are there +others?" + +"Don't know," Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, followed by +Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door they met the foreman. + +"This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin." Craigin growled out a salutation. +"Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have diphtheria." + +"How does he know?" inquired Craigin shortly. + +"He has examined them this morning." + +"Have you?" + +"No, not yet." + +"Then you don't know they have diphtheria?" + +"No," replied Haines weakly. + +"These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they ought +to be isolated at once." + +"Isolated? How?" + +"A separate camp must be built and someone appointed to attend them." + +"A separate camp!" exclaimed Craigin; "I'll see them blanked first! Look +here, Haines, let's have no nonsense about this. I'm three weeks, yes, +a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank muskeg is knocking +the whole contract endways. We can't spare a single man half a day. And +more than that, you go talking diphtheria in this camp and you can't +hold the men here an hour. It's all I can do to hold them as it is." And +Craigin went off into an elaborate course of profanity descriptive of +the various characteristics of the men in his employ. + +"But what is to be done?" asked Haines helplessly. + +"Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, anyway. It's +fine to-day. We'll send every man Jack out to-day." + +"These men can't be moved," said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. "You sent +a man out yesterday and he's dead." + +"He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's none of +YOUR business. Look here, Haines, you know me. I'm not going to have +any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and all that blankety +blank rot. Dose 'em up good and send 'em out." + +Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of the foreman. + +"Mr. Craigin, it would be murder," said Dr. Bailey, "sure murder. Some +of them might get through. Some would be sure to die. The consequences +to those responsible--to Dr. Haines, for instance--would be serious. I +am quite sure he will never give orders that these men should be moved." + +"He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will give +the orders right enough." Craigin's laugh was like the growl of a bear. +"There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear me. Those men are +going out to-day, and so are you, you blank, blank interferin' skunk." + +Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. "You may call me what you please +just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the day is over you won't have enough +names left. For I tell you that these men suffering from diphtheria are +going to stay here, and are going to be properly cared for." + +Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced stranger should presume +to come into his domain, where his word was wont to run as absolute +law, filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were serious issues at +stake, and with a supreme effort he controlled the passionate longing to +spring upon this upstart and throttle him. He turned sharply to Haines. + +"Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out to-day?" + +Haines hesitated. + +"You understand me, Haines; these men go out or--" + +Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A moment +more he paused and then surrendered. + +"Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I guess +they can go out." + +"Dr. Haines," said Craigin, "is that your decision?" + +"Yes, I think so." + +"All right," said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned to Tommy, +who was standing near with half a dozen men who had just come out from +breakfast. "Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams ready and all the +buffalo robes you need and be ready to start in an hour. Do you hear?" + +"I do," said Tommy, turning slowly away. + +"Tommy," called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, "you took a man out +from this camp yesterday. Tell the men here what happened." + +"Sure, they all know it," said Tommy, who had already told the story of +poor Scotty's death and of the doctor's efforts to save him. "An' it's a +fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av him all the way +down, an' not able to swally a taste whin I gave it to him." + +Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. "Here you blank, blank, blank! Do +what I tell you! And the rest of you men, what are you gawkin' at here? +Get to work!" + +The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked +quickly past Craigin into the midst of the group. + +"Men, I want to say something to you." His voice commanded their instant +attention. "There are half a dozen of your comrades in this camp sick +with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They ought to be isolated to +prevent the spread of the disease, and they ought to be cared for at +once. The foreman proposes to send them out. One went out yesterday. He +died last night. If these men go out to-day some of them will die, and +it will be murder. What do you say? Will you let them go?" A wrathful +murmur ran through the crowd, which was being rapidly increased every +moment by others coming from breakfast. + +"Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!" shouted Craigin, +pouring out oaths. "And you," turning toward Dr. Bailey, "get out of +this camp." + +"I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines," replied Dr. Bailey. "He has +asked my advice, and I am giving it." + +"Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it!" + +By this time the men were fully roused. One of them came forward. + +"What do you propose should be done, Doctor?" he inquired. + +"Are you going to work, McLean?" shouted Craigin furiously. "If not, go +and get your time." + +"We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin," said +McLean quietly. "It's a serious matter. We are all concerned in it, and +we'll decide in a few minutes what is to be done." + +"Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time," said +Craigin, and he turned away and passed into the office. + +"What do you propose should be done, Doctor?" said McLean, ignoring the +foreman. + +"Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and where +they can be kept from infecting the rest of the camp. Half a day's work +of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of them will die. +Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you have already been +infected." + +At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the disease, +were for sending out the sick immediately, but the majority would +not listen to this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came again to Dr. +Bailey. + +"The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be +stamped out here if you have a separate camp for an hospital?" + +"We can guarantee nothing," replied Dr. Bailey. "But it is altogether +the safer way to fight the disease. And I am of the opinion that we can +stamp it out." The doctor's air and tone of quiet confidence, far more +than his words, decided the men's action. In a minute more it was agreed +that the sick men should stay and that they would all stand together in +carrying out the plan of isolation. + +"If he gives any of us time," said Tommy, "we'll all take it, begob." + +"No, men," said the doctor, "let's not make trouble. I know Mr. +Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and he'll do what's fair. +Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen +men--one must be able to cook--and in half a day the work will be +finished. I will be personally responsible for everything." + +At this point Craigin came out. "Here's your time, McLean," he said, +thrusting a time check at him. + +McLean took it without a word and went over and stood by Dr. Bailey's +side. + +"Who are coming?" called out McLean. + +"All of us," cried a voice. "Pick out your men, McLean." + +"All right," said McLean, looking over the crowd. + +"I'm wan," said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. "I seen him +shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus fightin' fer his life, an' if I'm tuk +it's him I want beside me." + +One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the +doctor, while the rest of the men moved off to work. + +"Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for half a day." said Dr. +Bailey. + +For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for +consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen men were in his path +before he had taken the second step. + +"Hold on, Mr. Craigin," said McLean, "we want no violence. We're going +to do what we think right in this matter, so you may as well make up +your mind to it." + +"And Mr. Craigin," continued the doctor, "we shall need some things out +of your stores." + +Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. "Your +time is waiting you, men. And listen to me. If any man goes near that +there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've got the law and +I'll do it, so help me God." He went into the office and returned in a +moment with a Winchester, which he loaded in full view of the men. + +"Never mind him, boys," said the doctor cheerily, "I'm going to have +breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you." + +In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in his +hand, to find the men still waiting his orders and Craigin on guard with +his Winchester. + +"Don't go just yet," said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, "we'll +get round him." + +"Oh, he'll not shoot," said Dr. Bailey. + +"He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. He'll shoot and he'll kill, +too." + +For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him +waiting his lead. Craigin with his rifle held them all in check. A +moment's thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward Craigin +and said in a clear voice, "Mr. Craigin, these stores are necessary to +save these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to take them. Murder +me, if you like." + +"Hear me, men." Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. "These stores +are in my charge. I am an officer of the law. If any man lays his hand +on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God." + +"Hear me, Mr. Craigin," replied Dr. Bailey. "I'm here in consultation +with Dr. Haines, who has turned over this matter to my charge. In a case +of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. This whole camp is under +his authority. These stores are necessary, and I am going to get them." +He well knew the weak spot in his position, but he counted on Craigin's +nerve breaking down. In that, however, he was mistaken. Without haste, +but without hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. When three +paces from it Craigin's voice arrested him. + +"Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, you're a +dead man!" + +Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men with +varying cries rushed toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. +Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, the smoking +rifle dropping from his hand. + +"Begob, I niver played baseball," cried Tommy, rushing in and seizing +the rifle, "but many's the time I've had the divarsion in the streets av +Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick." + +A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's life. +They carried Craigin into the office and laid him on the bed, the blood +streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quickly Dr. Bailey got to +work and before Craigin had regained consciousness the wound was sewed +up and dressed. Then giving him over to the charge of Haines, Dr. Bailey +went about the work he had in hand. + +Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered to +be in various stages of diphtheria were comfortably housed in a roomy +building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, with a +small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate in charge. And before night had +fallen the process of disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, +and cookery was well under way, while all who had been in immediate +contact with the infected men had been treated by the doctor with +antitoxin as a precautionary measure. + +Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue still +undecided, but the chances for winning were certainly greater than they +had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able to take command +again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for the next two days, +the work on the dump was prosecuted with all vigour, the men feeling in +honour bound to support the doctor in that part of the fight which fell +to them. + + + + +XVIII + +THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + + +Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, good-humoured face, +which usually wore a smile indicating content with the world and +especially with himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was beating +him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing in General Manager Fahey +to have a look at things. It was important to awaken the sympathy of the +General Manager, if, indeed, this could be accomplished. But the General +Manager had a way of insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and +this stretch in Maclennan's charge was the one spot which the General +Manager feared would occasion delay. + +"There's the hole," said Maclennan, as they turned down the hill into +the swamp. "Into that hole," he continued, pointing to where the dump +ended abruptly in the swamp, "I can't tell you how many millions of +carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was never beaten in my +life, but that hole--" + +"Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or trestled, and +we can't wait too long, either." + +The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of energy +in railroad construction that refused to consider obstacles. Nothing +could stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the weight of +his determination simply had to move in one direction or other. The +contractor that failed expected no mercy, and received none. + +"We're doing our best," said Maclennan, "and we will continue to do our +best. Hello! what's this? What's Craigin doing up here? Hold up, Sandy. +We'll look in." + +At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met him. + +"Hello, Doctor! What have you got here?" + +"Isolation hospital," replied the doctor shortly. + +"What hospital?" + +"Isolation." + +"Has Craigin gone mad all at once?" + +"Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a new boss in camp." + +A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. Haines was +beginning to enjoy himself. + +"A new boss? What do you mean?" + +"What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into this +camp three days ago, raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up Craigin +with a broken head, and took charge of the camp." Maclennan stood in +amazement looking from Haines to the General Manager. + +"Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do with it? +And how did Craigin come to allow him?" + +"Ask Craigin," replied Haines. + +"What have you got in there, Doctor?" asked Mr. Fahey. + +"Diphtheria patients." + +"How many?" + +"Well, we began with eight three days ago and we've ten to-day." + +"Well, this knocks me out," said Maclennan. "Where's Craigin, anyway?" + +"He's down in his own room in bed." + +Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. "Come on, Fahey," he said, +"let's go down. Something extraordinary has happened. You can't believe +that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?" + +Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any +situation. "I can't help it, Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of cigars +that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. But it's no +laughing matter," continued the General Manager, sobering up. "This has +a very serious aspect. There are a whole lot of men sick in our camps. +You contractors don't pay enough attention to your health." + +"Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time to +think of health." + +"I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of +health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that string +of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never +should have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either +shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or something; +they're not fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my +theory is that every camp should have an hospital, with three main +hospitals along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is filled, +overflowing. A young missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out +at Kuskinook supported by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, +too; but it's overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss +Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the +fellows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I get sick send me to +her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three first-class men, +with three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the health +department in first-class condition. The men would stay with us. We'd +get altogether better results." + +"That's all right," said Maclennan, "but where are you to get your +first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors or some big +bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man Haines. He +doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to +be different. He certainly knows his work and he never touches whiskey. +I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in +great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness or busy +he's all right, but when things get quiet he hits the green table hard. +He's a wonder at poker, they say." + +The General Manager pricked up his ears. "Poker, eh? I'll remember +that." + +"But this here business is going too far," continued Maclennan. "I +didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to +say." + +As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook. + +"Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?" + +"Good-day, cook," said Maclennan. "Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few +minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin." + +Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, "M'sieu +Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed." + +"Why, what's the matter with him?" + +Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de +office you see de docteur." + +"Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him." + +"Hain!" said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. "Dat's no docteur for +one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. +He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree, +four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de +cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come +on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose +seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!" + +The smile broadened on Fahey's face. "I say, Maclennan, he's captured +your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure." + +The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and +passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey +in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence +and backed him out into the office. + +"Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan," he said, "he's asleep and must not be +disturbed." + +Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold "How are you," and introduced +him to Mr. Fahey. + +"Is Mr. Craigin ill?" inquired Fahey innocently. + +"He has met with a slight accident," replied the doctor. "He is doing +well and will be about in a day or two." + +"Accident?" snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a speech +he began in a loud tone, "Dr. Bailey, I must say--" + +"Excuse me," said the doctor, opening the office door and marshalling +them outside, "we'd better go somewhere else if we are going to talk. +It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly quiet." +The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same time +so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking meekly toward the +grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader +than ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the +face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner he found it difficult to +rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in bluster. + +"Upon my word, Dr. Bailey," he burst forth when once they were inside +the grub-house, "it seems to me that you have carried things on with a +high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, you head a +mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely +no authority from anyone. What in the blank, blank do you mean, anyway?" +Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire. + +"Mr. Maclennan," said the doctor quietly, "it is natural you should be +angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final judgment. +A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. Diphtheria. I +learned there were others suffering here with the same disease. I came +in at once to offer assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a +practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin objected. +There was some trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt." + +"Dr. Bailey," said the General Manager, "it will save trouble if you +will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact statement of +what occurred." The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's attention to +the rugged face of the speaker, with its square forehead and bull-dog +jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with a man of more than +ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact statement of all +that had happened, beginning with the death of Scotty Anderson. + +"That is all, gentlemen," said the doctor, as he concluded his tale; "I +did what I considered was right. Prompt action was necessary. I may have +been mistaken, but I think not." + +"Mistaken!" cried Fahey, with a great oath. "I tell you, Maclennan, +we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that one man's death, +but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the condition in +which the doctor says they were, the results would have been not only +deplorable as far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us with +the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I +am proud to meet you," continued Fahey, putting out his hand. "You had +a most difficult situation to deal with and you handled it like a +general." + +"I quite agree with you," said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by +the hand. "The measures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be +done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll send +him out." + +"Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would +suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his +force." + +"Well, well, we'll see, we'll see." + +"Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be +busy just now and will excuse us." + +The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. +Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the +sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. +Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon +the theme which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his +mind. + +"These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance--every +one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In +location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the +treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious +folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that +prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring +you will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention +of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a +magnificent site five hundred yards away," pointing to a little plateau +further up the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. +"Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which +the men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some +of them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all +sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp +here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, +good heavens! they might at least have kept the vermin out." + +"Oh, pshaw!" said Fahey, "every camp has to have a few of them fellows. +Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them +out." + +"Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of +vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay," +continued the doctor. "You would keep your men in good condition, in +good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay +with you. Besides, it would prevent scandal." + +"Scandal?" The General Manager looked up sharply. + +"Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the +line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all over +the East in a few weeks." + +The General Manager was thinking hard. "Look here, young man," he said, +with the air of one who has made up his mind, "do you drink?" + +"No." + +"Do you gamble?" + +"When I've nothing to do." + +"Oh, well," said Mr. Fahey, "a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and +then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will consider +favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this +line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not +much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't +answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I +don't care." + +For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. "I +didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can +look at it." + +Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it +again with more care. + +"You know Sir William?" + +"Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London." + +"This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood +very high in the profession in London." + +"I had a fairly good position," said Dr. Bailey. + +"May I ask why you left?" + +Dr. Bailey hesitated. "I grew tired of the life--and, besides--well--I +wanted to get away from things and people." + +"Pardon my asking," said Fahey hastily. "It was none of my business. +But, Doctor--" here he glanced at the letter again, "Bailey, you say +your name is?" + +"They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go." + +"Very well, sir," replied Fahey quickly, "Bailey let it be. My offer +holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your +standing for less." + +"Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. +When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping +it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much. +It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on +the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything." + +"By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine," said Fahey, with a laugh, +"so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are +supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we +will get it for you." + +On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room +with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, "I +believe it was a put-up job with Tommy." + +"It's a blank lie!" roared Craigin. "I have it from Tommy that it was +his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. +Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this +camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked +bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to +his business?" + +"Craigin," he said quietly, "let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, +that's all. There, that's better." + +Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back +in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine +and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment. + +"There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you +must be kept quiet." As he said this he motioned them out of the room. +As he was leaving, Craigin called him back. + +"I want to see Maclennan," he said gruffly. + +"Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin," replied the doctor, in soothing +tones. + +"I want to see him now." + +The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back. + +"Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I +was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or +three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's +I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor +here not to lay it up against me." + +"All right, Craigin," said Maclennan, "I'm glad to hear you say so. And +I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge." + +Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went +to the bedside. "Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my +friend." + +That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving +Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been +for some days. + + + + +XIX + +THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + + +Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode +at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as +a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the +occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital +was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, +but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. +Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the +new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts +and advocacy. "We want as matron," Dick had written, "a strong, sane +woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She +must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more +beautiful she is the better." + +"Cheery in manner and brave in heart?" Mrs. Macdougall had said to +herself, looking at the letter. "The very one! She is that and she is +all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. +Dick." Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the +suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. "No, she'll +never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but--" Not even to +herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a +word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment. + +With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to +consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever "Barney's +mother." + +"It would be a very fine work," said Mrs. Boyle, "but oh, lassie! it is +a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!" + +"Why, Dick is not very far away." + +"Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling +he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen +to you, and no one to care for you?" + +The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much +during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's +going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite +son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her +surrender showed deep upon her face. + +"What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?" said Ben, +breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. "There's one of the old +gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I +guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things +begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an' +Barney an' Dick--" + +"Och! Ben lad," said Mrs. Boyle, "Margaret will be hearing that story +many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?" + +"Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after +Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?" + +"Aye, that she does," remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that +Margaret flushed as she cried, "Not I! My business is to look after +other people." + +But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that +Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do +better than take Ben along to "look after her," as he put it. Hence, +before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest +valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to +hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. +And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff +and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on +errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid +movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of +joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the +clumsiness of the other leg in comparison. + +"W'en it comes to legs," Ben would say, "this 'ere's the machine fer me. +It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh +cawn't freeze it with forty below." + +As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious +appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The +institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an +object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood +unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the +matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, +a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something +sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In +fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that +it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various +powers and graces. + +It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's +foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a +serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to +which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already +overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge +of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease +Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his +invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul +of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm +friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take +Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which +he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons +associated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He +had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself +was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify +his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any +liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, +however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, +Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and +methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those +down the line. + +It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually +vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the +Kuskinook hospital and its belongings. + +"It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have +the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the +thrick, so they do." + +"I guess they're all right fer simple cases," agreed Ben, "but w'en yeh +git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!" + +"Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion +t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! +Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's +a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!" + +"Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?" inquired Ben, with fine +scorn. + +"Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin +ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him +alive, an' so I will." + +"Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said Ben, with studied, +politeness, "that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've +seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," displaying +his wooden leg and foot with pride. "But what I say is that w'en it +comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard +Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!" + +"Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the +same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the +railway?" + +"I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general," replied +Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, "but I'm talkin' about this 'ere +preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle." Ben's attention to the finer +courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. "An' that +I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more +fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire." + +"Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?" + +"Well," said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, "I hain't got a +day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere +which--" + +"Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man +from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their +hats?" + +"As I was sayin'," continued Ben, "there's two churches up the +Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by +them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you"--here +Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the +bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at +Tommy's face--"I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere +hinstitution!" And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude +of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was +without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or +her opinions was impossible to him. + +"An' what's more," continued Ben, "this 'ere hinstitution in which we're +a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' +them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!" And still Tommy +remained silent. + +"An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' +Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, +an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They +wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers +an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money +'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the +same." + +"Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the +docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?" + +"Yes, that's w'at I 'ear," conceded Ben. "But e'll soak 'em good at +poker." + +"Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy enthusiastically. "An' +it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair +aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid +lights'--" + +"'Red lights'?" interrupted Ben. "Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the +'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'." + +"Who did, thin?" + +"Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man." + +"Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape." + +"Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, +beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's h's became more lubricous with his +rising indignation. "An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's +violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' +the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole +blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the +jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!" + +"Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the +docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor +av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last +year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?" + +"No," said Ben, "I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't." + +"Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane." + +"My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!" cried Ben, +whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking. + +"Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a +batin'!" + +"I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," replied Ben scornfully, +"but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. +But as fer this 'ere preacher--" + +"Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's +worth--" + +"Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a +good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections +thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' +jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!" Ben's voice +rose in a shrill cry of anger. "I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of +this 'ere hinstitution--" + +"Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the +Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand--Howly Moses! here she +comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!" + +"Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well +to-day," cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice +eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit. + +"Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?" said the gallant +little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. "Sure, it's better than the +sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face." + +"Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on +like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to +blarney." + +"Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I +haven't the strength to do that same." + +"Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, +I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse +and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing +my annual report." + +"Report!" cried Ben. "A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods +an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' +ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh." + +And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's +inability to take thought for herself. + +The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there +stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied +loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas +fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled +with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side +climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to +the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay +like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new +railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west +the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay +Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new +spring dress. + +For some moments Dick stood gazing. "Of all views I see, this is the +best," he said. "Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it +always brings me rest and comfort." + +"Rest and comfort?" echoed Margaret, coming to his side. "Yes, I +understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, +Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its +light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long." + +"I understand," replied Dick, slowly. "Barney used to say the same about +the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill." + +Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each +was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the +name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the +thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with +every deeper throb. + +"Come, this won't do," said Margaret, almost sharply. + +"No, it won't do," replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's +heart. + +"I am struggling with my report," said Margaret in a business-like tone. +"What shall I say? How shall I begin?" + +"Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that +will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily +Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of +maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and +hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook." + +"Hush, Dick," said Margaret softly. "You are forgetting the man who +travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick +and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, +watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them +till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital +cannot cure." + +"Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of +this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and +in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook +any time they happen to be saying their prayers." + +"Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?" + +"Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--" + +"What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!" + +"Yes," replied Dick. "But think of what there would have been but for +that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a +sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established +hospitals, and all that sort of thing." + +"So you've got it, too," said Margaret, with a smile. + +"Got what?" + +"Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. +Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere." + +"Is that so?" replied Dick, laughing. "Well, there are some who have +escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've +got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him." + +"And yet they say he is--" + +"Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. But +he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big +fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The +Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was +fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd +leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British +army in India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, +one of them an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These +people were their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to +write to the Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining +the Church. Well, you remember the big meeting called to protest against +this vice? The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the +'Liberal' side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying +up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for me. In came Dr. +Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and then went for +them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he +crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor +of The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by +turns. The crowd simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with +the men. They passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. +Quite true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and +stayed at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all +the more because I am told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' and his +gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but +he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort at bottom." + +"To hear Tommy talk," replied Margaret, "you would make up your mind +he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his ways and +doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their luck. +Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the +comparative merits of the doctor and yourself." + +"Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough," said Dick earnestly, "that +you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me feel safer to think +that he is here." + +"Ben will agree with you," replied Margaret, "I assure you. He assumes +full care of me and of the whole institution." + +"Good boy, Ben," said Dick, heartily. "And he is a kind of link to that +old home and--with the past, the beautiful past, the past I like to +think of." The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening its +lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and unrest. + +"A beautiful past it was," replied Margaret gently. "We ought to be +thankful that we have it." + +"Have you heard anything?" inquired Dick. + +"No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after her +arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know where he had +gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no +word since." + +Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud. + +"Never mind, Dick, boy," said Margaret, laying her hand upon his head as +if he had been a child, "it will all come right some day." + +"I can't stand it, Margaret!" groaned Dick, "I shut it out from me for +weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my cursed folly that +wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, for all I know, +and mine!" + +"You must not say wrecked," replied Margaret. + +"What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would +say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing left in +this that can atone!" + +"That, too, you must not say, Dick," said Margaret. "God has something +yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has given. The best is +always before us. Besides," she continued eagerly, "He has given you all +this work to do, this beautiful work." + +The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. "Yes, yes, I must not +forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to work. +What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help +the heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word +of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of sight. He +pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not +for myself. If there were only one word to know he was doing well, was +safe!" He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. +"Margaret, do you think God will give me this?" His voice was hoarse +with the intensity of his passion. "Do you know, I sometimes feel that I +don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, +honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me +if only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for +you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my love of my +Lord, I'd give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful +night and not a word! It eats and eats and eats into me here," he smote +himself hard over his heart, "till the actual physical pain is at times +more than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?" he continued, his +face quivering piteously. "Every time I think of God I think of Barney. +Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I +am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it long? +Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take away the pain? +Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!" + +"Hush, Dick!" said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she +understood only too well. "Hush! You must not doubt God. God forgives +and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain as +soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give +him back to us. I feel it here." She laid her hand upon her heaving +breast. + +For some moments Dick was silent. "Perhaps so," he said at length. "For +your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he will." + +"Come," said Margaret, "let us go out into the open air, into God's +sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and see the +Goat cavort." She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At the door she +met Ben. "I won't be gone long, Ben," she explained. + +"Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret," replied Ben graciously. "An' +the longer yeh stay the better fer the hinstitution." + +"That's an extremely doubtful compliment," laughed Margaret, as they +passed down the winding path that made its way through the tall red +pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of +rock that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself +with her back against the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while +at her feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that +threw great clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It +was a sweet May day. All the scents and sounds of spring filled up +the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through the great feathering +branches gleamed patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long +aisles pillared with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought in +network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile +fury at the unmoved black rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's +edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges, hanging +trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the forest, were all +spring's myriad tender things wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's +ugliness. From the river below came gusts of misty wind, waves of +sound of the water's many voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly +ministries got about the spirit, healing, soothing, resting. + +With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches +wave about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods +around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed +from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the road again. + +"You don't know how good this is, Margaret," he said, "all this about +me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could +bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! +if only you could let me hope that some day--" + +"Look, Dick!" she cried, springing to her feet, "there's the train." + +It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like +some great jointed reptile through the woods below. + +"Tell me, Margaret," continued Dick, "is it quite impossible?" + +"Oh, Dick!" cried the girl, her face full of pain, "don't ask me!" + +"Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?" + +She clasped her hands above her heart. "Dick," she cried piteously, "I +can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While Barney lives I +could not be true and be another's wife." + +"While Barney lives!" echoed Dick blankly. "Then God grant you may +never be mine!" He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of his +shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. "Come, let +us go," he said. "There will be letters and I must get to work." + +"Yes, Dick dear," said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, "there's +always our work, thank God!" + +Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was +to them, as to many others, God's salvation. + +There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but +one among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from Iola. She +caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was +not mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of +her season's triumph with Wagner. "It has been a great, a glorious +experience," wrote Iola. "I cannot be far from the top now. The critics +actually classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am +tired out. The doctors say there is something wrong, but I think it is +only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but +I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I +want--oh, fool that I was!--I may as well out with it--I want Barney. +I have no shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to +come. But he would not. He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you +at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. Sometimes I am +afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think that is it. I +am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is the best. If you +have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, this letter +has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is sore. But +I must let it go." The tears were streaming down Margaret's face as she +read. + +"Read it, Dick," she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into his hands. + +Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word. + +"Oh, where is he?" cried Margaret, wringing her hands. "If we only +knew!" + +"The date is a month old," said Dick. "I think one of us must go. You +must go, Margaret." + +"No, Dick, it must be you." + +"Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember--" + +"Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go." + +"For Barney's sake," said Dick, with a sob in his throat. "Yes, I'll +go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in the Big Horn +Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! if I could +only bring her back for him, dear old boy! God give me this!" + +"Amen," said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and dies +hard. + + + + +XX + +UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + + +The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough country +into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over high mountain +shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For this reason, all who +knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water in going up the +canyon. True enough, there were a number of lift-outs and two rather +long portages that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man had +skill with the paddle and knew the water he might avoid these by running +the rapids. Men from the Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, +like all true canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of +the rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not +so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the canoeman happened +to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet +water by the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into the swift +water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper of the stopping +place at the Landing, said, "She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak +one oiseau." + +There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big Horn, +and Dr. Bailey had been urgently summoned. The upper camp lay on the +other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more from the steel. +The lake itself was six miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at +least twice that. Hence, though there would be some stiff paddling in +the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his choice of route. He knew +his canoe and loved every rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the +woodsman's trick of going light. A blanket, a tea pail which held his +grub, consisting of some Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a +little tea and sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so +that he could make the portages in a single carry. Many a mile had he +gone, thus equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up +and down these valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the +railroad, lumber, and tie camps, and more recently in the new-planted +mining towns. + +It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would help him +in his fight with the current and coming down it would be glorious. +The sun was just appearing over the row of pines that topped the low +mountain range to the east when he packed his kit and blankets under the +gunwale in the bow and slipped his canoe into the water. He was about to +step in when a voice he had not heard for many days arrested him. + +"Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday? He +was--By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!" + +It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift +steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked +him swiftly apart. + +"Ben," he said, in a low, stern voice, "not a word. I once did you a +good turn?" + +Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech. + +"Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know now." + +"But--but Miss Margaret and Dick--" gasped Ben. + +"They don't know," interrupted the doctor, "and must not know. Will you +promise me this, Ben?" + +"By Jove, Barney! I don't--I don't think--" + +"Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?" + +"Yes, by the livin'--" + +"Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old days." +The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl. + +"You bet, Bar--Doctor!" he cried. + +"Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad." + +He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above +the falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat. + +"Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!" sang out Duprez. "You cache hup de +preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night." + +"What? Who?" + +"De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp on de +Beeg Fall, s'pose." + +Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. "Went up last night, did he?" + +"Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send for +M'sieu Boyle." + +"Did he go up alone?" + +"Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe." + +It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should +fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at all costs, +he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his +canoe, calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve. +He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own ingenuity +to avoid the meeting he dreaded. + +"All right, Duprez! bon jour." + +"Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' de +portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?" + +"No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her." + +"Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur," answered Duprez, shrugging his +shoulders. "Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!" + +"Don't worry about me," cried the doctor. "Just watch me take this +little riffle." + +"Bien!" cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy and, +with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point where the +stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to the +falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra weight +on his paddle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigilance +which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the +cause, when the swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his +strength and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream and going +down the rapids. + +"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot to +the other. "A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come out on de +heddy!" + +The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the +frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy and +gradually edged her into the quiet water. + +"You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!" cried Duprez, as the doctor +paddled slowly up the edge past him. "You bes' pass on de portage. Not +many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca." + +"All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all." + +Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the thing +before and he was not to be beaten now. As the eddy bore him toward the +swift water again he carefully gauged the angle of attack, so that +when the nose of the canoe entered the riffle, with the trick that all +canoemen know, he held her up firm against the water, and, with no very +great effort, but by skilful manipulations of the force of the current, +he shoved her gradually across the riffle into the slow water near +the farther bank, and with a triumphant wave of the paddle disappeared +around the bend. + +"He's good man," said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all this +time to recover from the shock of Barney's sudden appearance. "But de +preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night." + +"Did, eh?" answered Ben. "Well, he didn't put in three summers on the +Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the canoe, an' so's his bro--that +is--the doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!" Ben was much excited. + +"Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for sure!" + +Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, taking +advantage of every eddy and cross current, stealing along the bank under +the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting his canoe +over rocky bits, till near mid-day he found himself at the portage below +the Long Rapid. + +"Guess I'll camp on the other side," he said, talking aloud after +the manner of men who live much alone. He adjusted his paddles on the +thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, and, +taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the half mile portage without +a "set down." + +"There," he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, "my legs are +better than my arms. Now we'll grub." He unpacked his tea pail, cut his +bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a fire, drew a pail of +water, threw in a handful of tea, swung it by a poplar sapling over the +fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. In fifteen minutes his meal was +ready--such a meal as can be had only in the mountains under the open +sky and at the end of a ten-mile paddle against the stream of the Big +Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched himself in the warm +spring sun for half an hour's quiet think. The old restlessness was +coming back upon him. His work as Medical Superintendent of the railway +construction was practically completed. The medical department was +thoroughly organized and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much +over so far as he was concerned. And with the easing of the strain there +came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the last three years +driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his professional +honour demanded that he should hold his post and do his work, he had +long ago left a district where he was kept constantly in mind of what +he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the exercise of the most +assiduous care he had prevented a meeting with his brother during the +last three months. But in this he could not hope to be successful much +longer. Before his second pipe was smoked he had reached his resolve. +"I'll pull out of this," he said, "once this Big Horn camp is cleaned +up." + +He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a right +woodsman, slipped his canoe into the water, and set off again. His +meeting with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother +near him to-day. Everything was eloquent of those days they had spent +together on the upper reaches of the Ottawa. The flowing river, the open +sky, the wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping canoe spoke +to him of Dick. The fierce resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that +had been as a festering in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day +to have lost their stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with +every deep breath of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the +canoe, the buoyant gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling +into his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself singing, to the +rhythmic swing of paddle and shoulders, the old Habitant canoe song: + + + "En roulant ma boule roulant." + + +As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he +sternly check himself and resolutely set another air going in his head, +only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to the old +song to which he and his brother had so often made their canoe slip in +those great days that now seemed so far away. + + + "En roulant ma boule," + + +sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's clear +tenor from the bow. "Here, confound it! Quit it, I say!" he said aloud +savagely. + + + "En roulant ma boule roulant," + + +in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. The +doctor almost dropped his paddle into the stream. + +"Heavens above!" he muttered. "What's that? Who's that?" + + + "Visa la noir, tua le blanc, + Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant," + + +sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just that +way. With two swift heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe into the +overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled his canoe up +the bank after him. Down the river still came the song, and ever nearer. + + + "O fils du roi tu es mechant, + En roulant ma boule." + + +The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to the +bank came the canoe, the singer sitting in the stern, his hat off and +his face showing brown against the fair hair. How strong he looked and +how handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride in his brother's +good looks. Yes, he was handsome as ever, and yet he was different. +"He's older, that's it," said the man in the bushes, breathing hard. No, +it was not that altogether. There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon +the face. All at once the song ceased abruptly. The paddle was laid down +and the canoe allowed to drift. The current carried her still nearer +the shore. Every line in the face could now be seen. The man peering out +through the bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in +that grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument +of grief. The change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply the +gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and something else. This +was the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of the face and in +its place sadness, almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, sad +face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with unseeing gaze upon the +flowing water. The canoe was now almost abreast the hiding place in the +bushes and still drifting. Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his +face toward the sky, cried out, "I'll bring her back, please God, and +I'll find him, too!" The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped +under his hand. He threw himself face down and gripped his hands hard +into the moss as if to hold himself there. "A deer, I guess, but I must +get on," he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, looking +out through the bushes, he saw the swaying figure of the man he most +longed and most dreaded to see of all men in the world fast disappearing +from his view. Twice he raised his hands to his lips to call after him, +but even as he did so a vision held his voice, the vision of a room in +a city far away, the girl he loved, and this man pressing hot kisses on +her face. + +"No," he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, "let him +go." But still with straining eyes he gazed after the swaying figure +till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he sank down on +the deep moss bank with the air of a man who has just passed through a +heavy fight. + +The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The brightness +had gone out of the light, the sweetness out of the air. A burning pain +filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old sore, which his +work for the sick and wounded had helped to heal over, had been torn +open afresh, and the first agony of it was upon him again. He arrived at +the upper camp late at night and weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled +on in his fight with the typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the +day, then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set off down the Big Horn, +resolved that ere a week had passed he would seek in some far land the +forgetting which here was impossible to him. + +Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without awakening +any rhythmic song in his heart. It was a heavy grind to be got through +with as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the canoe failed to +quicken his heart a single beat. It was still early in the forenoon when +he reached the Long Rapid. It was a dangerous bit of water, but without +a moment's considering he stood upright in his canoe and, casting a +quick glance down the boiling slope, he made his choice of passage. +Then getting on his knees he braced them firmly against the sides of his +canoe and before he was well ready found himself in the smooth, steep +pitch at the crest of that seething incline of plunging water. Two +long swallowlike swoops, then a mad plunging through a succession of +buffeting, curling waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed +through, a great heave or two over the humping billows at the foot, then +the swirl of the eddy caught him, and lifted him clear over into the +quiet water. One minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left +behind. + +"Didn't take that quite right," he grumbled. "Ought to have lifted her +sooner. Next time I'll get through dry. Next time?" he repeated. "God +knows if there'll ever be any next time of that water for me." He +paddled round the eddy toward the shore, intending to dump the water +out of his canoe. "Hello! What in thunder is that?" Up against the +driftwood, where it had been carried by the eddy, a canoe was floating +bottom upwards. "God help us!" he groaned. "It's his canoe! My God! +My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd run these rapids. That's his +style. Oh, why didn't I call him? We could have done it together +safe enough!" He stood up in his canoe and searched eagerly among the +driftwood. "Dick! Dick!" he called over and over again in the wild cry +of a wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and examined it. "Ah, +that's where he hit the rocks, just at the foot. But he shouldn't drown +here," he continued, "unless they hit him. Let's see, where would that +eddy take him?" For another anxious minute he stood observing the run +of the water. "If he could keep up three minutes," he said, "he ought +to strike that bar." With a few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand +bar. "Ha!" he cried. A paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark. +"That never floated there." He leaped out and drew up his canoe, then, +dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the bar. There on the +sand was stamped the print of an open hand. "Now, God be thanked!" he +cried, lifting his hands toward the sky, "he's reached this spot. He's +somewhere on shore here." Like a dog on scent he followed up the marks +to the edge of the forest where the bank rose steeply over rough rocks. +Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the alert for any sign. He reached +the top. A quick glance he threw around him, then with a low cry he +rushed forward. There, stretched prone on the moss, a little pile of +brushwood near him, with his match case in his hand, lay his brother. +"Oh, Dick, boy!" he cried aloud, "not too late, surely!" He dropped +beside the still form, turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his +heart. "Too late! Too late!" he groaned. Like a madman he rushed out +of the woods, flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his canoe, +seized his bag and scrambled back again. Again, and more carefully, he +felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could detect a feeble flutter. +Hurriedly he seized his flask and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured +a few drops of the whiskey down the throat. But there was no attempt +to swallow. "We'll try it this way." With swift fingers he filled his +syringe with the whiskey and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited +with his hand upon the feebly fluttering heart. "My God! it's coming, I +do believe!" he cried. "Now a little strychnine," he whispered. "There, +that ought to help." + +Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and +blanket. In five minutes he had a fire going and his tea pail swung over +it with a little more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes more +he had half a cup of hot tea ready. By this time the heartbeat could be +detected every moment growing stronger. Into the tea he poured a little +of the stimulant. "If I can only get this down," he muttered, chafing at +the limp hands. Once more he lifted the head, pried open the shut +jaws, and tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down. After repeated +attempts he succeeded. Then for the first time he observed that his +hands were covered with blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining +the back of it, detected a great jagged wound. "Looks bad, bad." He felt +the bone carefully and shook his head. "Fracture, I fear." Heating some +more water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he spent +in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing every precious +moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to come +slowly back. "Now I must get him to the hospital." + +There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and there +were no portages. With swift despatch he cut a large armful of balsam +boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his canoe, cutting +out the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and picking his steps +with great care, he carried him to the canoe and laid him upon the +balsam boughs on his right side. The moment the weight came upon that +side a groan burst from the pallid lips. "Something wrong there," +muttered the doctor, turning him slightly over. "Ah, shoulder out. I'll +just settle this right now." By dexterous manipulation the dislocation +was reduced, and at once the patient sank down upon the bed of boughs +and lay quite still. A little further stimulation brought back the heart +to a steadier beat. "Now, my boy," he said to himself, as he took his +place kneeling in the stern of the canoe, "give her every ounce you +have." For half an hour without pause, except twice to give his patient +stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept their rhythmic +swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe and in a minute more was +at the Landing. + +"Duprez! Here, quick!" The doctor stood in the door of the stopping +place, wet as if he had come from the river, his voice raucous and his +face white. + +"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Frenchman, "what de mattaire?" + +The doctor swept a glance about the room. "Sick man," he said briefly. +"I want this bed. Get your buckboard, quick." He seized the bed and +carried it out before the eyes of the astonished Duprez. + +Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time the +bed had been arranged on the buckboard he had his horse between the +shafts. + +"Now then, Duprez, give me a hand," said the doctor. + +"Certainment. Bon Dieu! Dat's de bon preechere! Not dead, heh?" + +"No," said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face while he +placed his fingers upon the pulse. "No. Now get on. Drive carefully, but +make time." + +In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, which +was well graded and smooth. Duprez sent along his pony at a lope and in +a short space of time they reached the door of the hospital, where they +were met by Orderly Ben Fallows on duty. + +"Barney! By the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" cried Ben. "What on +earth--" + +But the doctor cut him short. "Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get a +bed ready with warm blankets and hot water bottles. Go, man! Don't gape +there!" + +Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up the +stair as fast as his wooden leg would allow him. He reached the office +door. "Miss Margaret," he gasped, "Barney's at the door with a sick man. +Wants a bed ready. We 'aven't got one--and--" + +The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words. +"Barney?" she said, rising slowly to her feet. "Barney?" she said again, +her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. "What do you mean, Ben?" +The words came slowly. + +"He wants a bed for a sick man and we 'aven't--" + +Margaret took a step toward him. "Ben," she said, in breathless haste, +"get my room ready. But first tell Nurse Crane to come to me quick. Go, +Ben." + +The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands she +shut the door, turned toward her desk, and there stood, both hands +pressed hard to her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous +tides that surged through her heart and thundered in her ears. "Barney! +Barney!" she whispered. "Oh, Barney, at last!" The blue eyes were wide +open and all aglow with the tender light of her great love. "Barney," +she said over and over, "my love, my love, my--ah, not mine--" A sob +caught her voice. Over her desk hung a copy of Hoffman's great picture, +the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. "O +Christ!" she cried brokenly, "I, too! Help me!" A knock came to the +door, Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned toward her desk +again. + +"Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient," said the nurse. + +"Dr. Bailey?" echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her trembling +hands fluttering among the papers on the desk. "Go to him, Nurse, and +get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment." + +Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the +Christ, the words of the great submission ringing through the chambers +of her soul. "Not my will but Thine be done." She pressed nearer the +picture, gazing into that strong, patient, suffering face through the +rain of welcome tears. "O Christ!" she whispered, "dear blessed Christ! +I understand--now. Help me! Help me!" Then, after a pause, "Not my will! +Not my will!" + +The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood in +the corner of her office, bathed her eyes, smoothed away the signs of +struggle from her face, and went forth serene to her duty and her cross. +In the hall she met Barney. With a quick, light step she was at his +side, both hands stretched out. "Barney!" "Margaret!" was all they said. +For a moment or two Barney stood holding her hands, gazing without a +word into the sweet face, so pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong. +Twice he essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat. Turning +abruptly away he pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on the +camp bed. + +"I've brought--you--Dick," at last he said hoarsely. + +"Dick! Hurt? Not--" She halted before the dreaded word. + +"No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope--" + +"The room is ready," said Nurse Crane. + +At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate +demands of their common duty. They had work to do, and they had trained +themselves to obey without thought of self that Divine call to serve +the suffering. Together they toiled at their work, Margaret noting with +delighted wonder the quick fingers and the finished skill that +cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in the head and made thorough +examination for other injury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the +efficiency of the silent, steady helper at his side whose quick eye and +hand anticipated his every want. At length their work was done and they +stood looking down upon the haggard face. + +"He is resting now," said Barney, in a low voice. "The fracture is not +serious, I think." + +"Poor Dick," said Margaret, passing her hand over his brow. + +At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney quickly +stepped back out of sight. For a moment or two the eyes wandered about +the room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, inquiring gaze. + +"What is it, Dick, dear?" said Margaret, bending over him. + +For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if seeking +something. + +"I know. The letter, Dick?" A look of intelligence lighted the eye. +"That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to Barney. Barney is here, you +know." + +A hand grasped her arm. "Hush!" said Barney in stern command. "Say +nothing about me." But she heeded him not. For a moment longer the sick +man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of content overspread the +drawn features, then the look of intelligence faded and the eyes closed +wearily. + +"Come," said Barney, moving toward the door, "he is better quiet." + +Leaving the nurse in charge, they went together toward the office. + +"Where did you find him?" asked Margaret as she gave Barney a seat. Then +Barney told her the story of how he had chanced upon the canoe and had +discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods. + +"It was God's leading, Barney," said Margaret gently, when the story +was done; but to this he made no reply. "Is there serious danger, do you +think?" she inquired in an anxious voice. + +"He will recover," replied Barney. "All he requires is careful nursing, +and that you can give him. I shall wait till to-morrow." + +"To-morrow? And then?" + +"I am leaving this country next week." + +"Leaving the country? And why?" + +"My work here is done." + +"Surely there is much yet to do, and you have just begun to do such +great things. Why should you leave now?" + +Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pondering an answer. +"Margaret, I must go," he finally burst forth. "You know I must go. I +can't live within touch of him and forget!" + +"Forgive, you mean, Barney." + +"Well, forgive, if you like," he replied sullenly. + +"Barney," replied Margaret earnestly, "this is unworthy of you, and +in the face of God's mercy to-day how can you hold resentment in your +heart?" + +"How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three years I have fought it, +but it is there. It is there!" He struck his hand hard upon his breast. +"I can't forget that he ruined my life! But for him I believe in my +soul I should have won--her to me! At a critical moment he came in and +ruined--" + +"Barney! Barney, listen to me!" cried Margaret impetuously. + +Barney sprang to his feet. + +"No, you must listen to me. Sit down." Barney obeyed her word and sat +down. "Now, hear me, and hear me fairly. I am not going to say that Dick +was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was the greater I can't +tell. They were both young and, to a certain extent, inexperienced in +the ways of life. Circumstances threw them much together and on terms of +almost brotherly and sisterly intimacy. That was a mistake. They ignored +conventions that can never be safely ignored. Just at that time Dick's +life was made hard for him. His Church had rejected him." + +"Rejected him?" + +"Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was +branded as a heretic and outcast from work." Margaret's voice grew +bitter. "Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not help +it--I can't say--but he grew hard. Yes, and worse than that, grew away +from his faith, from his friends, and from those things that keep men +straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation came upon him. +You and I have seen enough of that side of life to know what that means. +He broke faith with you--no, not with you. He was loyal to you, but he +broke faith with himself and with her. For a single moment, that moment +at which you appeared, he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, +has he suffered since that moment. How terribly no one knows. He has +tried to find you, but you would not be found. He wronged you, Barney, +but you have made him and all of us suffer much." The voice that had +gone on so bravely and so firmly here suddenly trembled and broke. + +"Made you suffer!" cried Barney, with bitter scorn. "How can you speak +of suffering? You have everything! I have lost all!" + +"Everything?" echoed Margaret faintly. "Ah, Barney, how little you know! +But, no matter, God has brought you together and you must not do this +wicked thing. You must not continue to break our hearts." + +"Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a heart, +too, and a brother whom I loved and trusted as myself, yes, more than +myself, and--I had--Iola. All I have lost. My work satisfies me for a +few months, but try as I can this awful thing hunts me down and drives +me mad. There is nothing in life left for me. And there might have been +much but for--" + +"Stop, Barney!" cried Margaret impulsively. "There is much still left +for you. God is good. How much better than we. You can't forgive a +fellow-sinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, and surely you +ought to try--" + +"Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't tried? +That thing is there! there!" smiting on his breast again. "Can you tell +me how to rid myself of it?" + +"Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do this +for you. Listen," she said, putting up her hand to stay his words, "God +is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to soften you. Here, +read this." She handed him Iola's letter, went to the window, and stood +with her back to him, looking out upon the great sweeping valley below. + +"Margaret!" The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, proud, +sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His lips were quivering, his hands +trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. "Margaret," he cried +brokenly, "what does this mean?" He was terribly shaken. + +"It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going +to-morrow to bring her back to you, Barney. That was his one desire." + +"To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old boy! and +I--Oh, Margaret!" He put his trembling hands out to her. "Forgive me! +God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!" He started toward the door. +"No, not how," he cried, striving in vain to control himself. "I am mad! +mad! For three long years I have carried this cursed thing in my heart! +It's gone! It's gone, Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!" He was shouting +aloud. "I feel right toward Dick, my brother!" + +"Hush, Barney dear," said the girl, tears running down her face, "you +will wake him." + +"Yes, yes," he cried, in an eager whisper, "I'll be careful. Poor old +boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick! And she wants me! I'll go +to-night! Yes, to-night! What's the date?" He tore at the envelope with +trembling hands. The letter dropped to the floor. Margaret caught it up +and opened it for him. "A month ago and more! Yes, I'll go to-night. +Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! I can't get myself in hand." +Suddenly he threw himself into his chair. "Here!" he ground out between +his teeth, "get quiet!" He sat for a few moments absolutely still, +gathering strength to command himself. At length he got himself in hand. +"No," he said in a quiet voice, "I shall not go tonight. I shall wait +till Dick is better. Just now he must be kept quiet. In the morning I +expect to see him very much himself. We can only wait and see." + +Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold +himself in perfect control, Margaret quietly doing what was to be done, +her whole spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love which finds its +highest joy in the joy of another. At the break of day the nurse came to +the door and found them still waiting. + +"Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss Robertson." + +"Let me go to him," cried Barney. "Don't fear." His voice was still +vibrating, but his manner was calm and steady. He was master of himself +again. + +"Yes," said Margaret, "go to him." Then as the door closed she stood +once more before the Gethsemane scene. "Thank God, thank God," she said +softly, "for them the pain is over." + +For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She opened +the door softly, went in and stood gazing till her eyes grew dim. On +the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, whose arm +was thrown about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of +rapturous peace. As Margaret moved to leave the room Dick called her in +a voice faint, but full of joy. + +"Margaret," he said, a smile breaking like light through a dark cloud, +"my head was broken, but I'd have all the bones in my body broken, just +to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?" + +Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, but radiant with a +peace it had not known for many a day. "Yes, old chap," he said in a +voice still tremulous in spite of all his self-command, "we're right +again, and, please God, we'll keep so." + + + + +XXI + +TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + + +For three days Dick made steady progress toward health, but his progress +was slow. Any mental effort produced severe pain in his head and +sufficed to raise his temperature several points. As he gained in +strength and became more and more clear in his thinking his anxiety in +regard to his work began to increase. His congregations would be +waiting him on Sunday, and he could not bear to think of their being +disappointed. With no small effort had he gathered them together, and a +single failure on his part he knew would have disastrous effect upon +the attendance. He was especially concerned about the service at Bull +Crossing, which was at once the point where the work was the most +difficult, and, at the present juncture, most encouraging. Under his +instructions Barney sought to secure a substitute for the service at +Bull Crossing, but without result. Preachers were scarce in that country +and every preacher had more work in sight than he could overtake. And so +Dick fretted and wrought himself into a fever, until the doctor took him +sternly to task. + +"I don't see that it's your business to worry, Dick," he said. "I +suppose you consider yourself as working under orders, and it is your +belief, isn't it, that the One who gives the orders is the One who has +laid you down here?" + +"That's true," said Dick wearily, "but there's the people. A lot of +them come a long way. It's been hard to get them together, and I hate to +disappoint them." + +"Well, we'll get someone," replied Barney. "We're a pretty hard +combination to beat, aren't we, Margaret? There will be a man to take +the service at Bull Crossing if I have to take it myself--a desperate +resort, indeed." + +"Why not, Barney?" asked Dick. "You could do it well." + +"What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk a little with my fingers, +but my tongue is unconscionably slow." + +"There was a man once slow of speech," replied Dick quietly, "but he was +given a message and he led a nation into freedom." + +Barney nodded. "I remember him. But he could do things." + +"No," answered Dick, "but he believed God could do things." + +"Perhaps so. That was rather long ago." + +"With God," replied Dick earnestly, "there is no such thing as long +ago." + +"All the same," said Barney, "I guess these things don't happen now." + +"I believe they happen," replied his brother, "where God finds a man who +will take his life in his hand and go." + +"Well, I don't know about that," replied Barney, "but I do know that you +must quit talking and sleep. Now, hear me, drop that meeting out of your +mind. I'll look after it." + +But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, he +found no one for the service at Bull Crossing next day. There was +still a slight hope that one of the officials of the congregation would +consent to be a stop-gap for the day. + +"I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret," said Barney +laughingly. "Wouldn't the crowd stare? They'd hear the sermon of their +lives." + +"It would be a good sermon, Barney," replied Margaret quietly. "And why +should you not say something to the men?" + +"Nonsense, Margaret!" cried Barney impatiently. "You know the thing is +utterly absurd. What sort of man am I to preach? A gambler, a swearer, +and generally bad. They all know me." + +"They know only a part of you, Barney," said Margaret gently. "God knows +all of you, and whatever you have been you are no gambler today, and you +are not a bad man." + +"No," replied Barney slowly, "I am no gambler, nor will I ever be again. +But I have been a hard, bad man. For three years I carried hate in my +heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be forgiven. And that, I +believe, was the cause of all my badness. But--somehow--I don't deserve +it--but I've been awfully well treated. I deserved hell, but I've got +a promise of heaven. And I'd be glad to do something for--" He paused +abruptly. + +"There, you've got your sermon, Barney," said Margaret. + +"What do you mean?" + +"'Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'" + +"It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me to +preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll get one of those fellows at the +Crossing to take the meeting." + +On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the subject. + +"I'm not anxious, Barney," he said, "but who's going to take the meeting +to-morrow night at Bull Crossing?" + +"Now, look here," said Barney, "Monday morning you'll hear all about it. +Meantime, don't ask questions. Margaret and I are responsible, and that +ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail." + +"No, nor you, Barney," said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of +satisfaction. "I know it will be all right. Are you going down to-morrow +evening?" he inquired, turning to Margaret. + +"I?" exclaimed Margaret. "What would I do?" + +"Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good," said Barney. +"You may have to preach yourself or hold my coat while I go in." + +A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, and +the quick following pallor told Dick the thoughts that rushed through +Margaret's heart. + +"Yes," said Dick gravely, "you will go down, too, Margaret. It will do +you good, and I don't need you here." + +Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he +found himself so utterly blocked by unmanageable circumstances and +uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. He +confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in "Mexico's" +saloon toning up his system after his long illness, and whom he had +straightway carried off with him. + +"I guess it's either you or me, Tommy." + +"Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an' divil a wan av the bhoys +will 'Mexico' git this night, wance the news gits about." + +"Don't talk rot, Tommy," said Barney angrily, for the chance of his +being forced to take his brother's place, which all along had seemed +to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With the energy of +desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon visiting, explaining, +urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of the members or adherents of the +congregation at Bull Crossing in whom might be supposed to dwell the +faintest echo of the spirit of the preacher. One after another, however, +those upon whom he had built his hopes failed him. One was out of +town, another he found sick in bed, and a third refused point blank +to consider the request, so that within a few minutes of the hour of +service he found himself without a preacher and wholly desperate, and +for the first time he seriously faced the possibility of having to take +the service himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's +parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and abruptly announced to her +his failure. + +"Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You know, I +can't," he repeated, in answer to the look upon her face. "Why, it was +only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of hundred. He would +give a good deal more to get even. The crowd would hoot me out of +the building. Not that I care for that"--the long jaws came hard +together--"but it's just too ghastly to think of." + +"It isn't so very terrible, Barney," said Margaret, her voice and eyes +uniting in earnest persuasion. "You are not the man you were last week. +You know you are not. You are quite different, and you will be different +all your life. A great change has come to you. What made the change? You +know it was God's great mercy that took the bitterness out of your heart +and that changed everything. Can't you tell them this?" + +"Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that? What +would they say?" + +"Barney," asked Margaret, "you are not afraid of them? You are not +ashamed to tell what you owe to God?" + +Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not +afraid, but his native diffidence, intensified by these recent years of +self-repression and self-absorption, had made all speech difficult to +him, but more especially speech that revealed the deeper movements of +his soul. + +"No, Margaret, I'm not afraid," he said slowly. "But I'd rather have +them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit than get up and speak to +them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Margaret? How can +I do that?" + +"All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course," she replied. +"But you will tell them just what you will." + +With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a +desperate fight. His word passed to his brother must be kept. But soon +a deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His sense of +loyalty was touched. He knew himself to be a different man from the man +who, last week, in "Mexico's" saloon, had beaten his old antagonist at +the old game. His consciousness of himself, of his life purposes, of +his outlook, of his deepest emotions, was altogether a different +consciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pursuing restlessness +was gone and, in its place, a deep peace possessed him. The process by +which this had been achieved he could not explain, but the result was +undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an influence the source of which +he frankly acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of the +beaten and confounded pagan magic-workers came to him, "This is the +finger of God." He could not deny it. Why should he wish to hide it? It +became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, that +there was a demand being made upon him as a man of truth and honour, and +as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility of his refusing +the demand presented itself to his mind, there flashed in upon him +the picture of a man standing in the midst of enemies, the flickering +firelight showing his face vacillating, terror-stricken, hunted. From +the trembling lips of the man he heard the words of base denial, "I know +not the man," and in his heart there rose a cry, "O Christ! shall I do +this?" "No," came the answer, strong and clear, from his lips, "I will +not do this thing, so help me God." + +Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. "You won't?" +she said faintly. + +"I'll take the service," he replied, setting the long jaws firmly +together. And with that they went forth to the hall. + +They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through Tommy +Tate it had been noised abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach. There were +wild rumors, too, that the doctor had "got religion," although "Mexico" +and his friends scouted the idea as utterly impossible. + +"He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve," was "Mexico's" verdict, +given with a full accompaniment of finished profanity. + +Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound +impression and to awaken an expectation that rose to fever pitch when +Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took their +places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played himself, and +Barney at the table upon which were the Bible and the Hymn-book. His +face wore the impenetrable, death-like mark which had so often baffled +"Mexico" and his gang over the poker table. It fascinated "Mexico" now. +All the years of his wicked manhood "Mexico" had, on principle, avoided +anything in the shape of a religious meeting, but to-day the attraction +of a poker player preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small +surprise that the crowd saw "Mexico," with two or three of his gang, +make their way toward the front to the only seats left vacant. + +When it became evident beyond dispute that his old-time enemy was to +take the preacher's place, "Mexico" leaned over to his pal, "Peachy" +Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in an undertone +audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, "It's his old game. +He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got the cards." + +But painful experience shook "Peachy's" confidence in his friend's +judgment on this particular point, and he only ventured to reply, "He's +got the lead." "Peachy" preferred to await developments. + +The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fervour that marks the musical +part of any religious service in the West. But there was in the voices +that curious thrill that is at once the indication and the quickening of +intense excitement. + +"This here'll show what's in his hand," said "Peachy," when the moment +for prayer arrived. "Peachy" was not unfamiliar with religious services, +and had, with unusual keenness of observation, noted that when a man +undertook to pray he must, if he be true, reveal the soul within him. + +"Mexico" grunted a dubious affirmative. But "Peachy" was disappointed, +for in a voice reverent, but unimpassioned, the preacher for the day led +the people's devotions, using the great words taught those men long ago +who knew not how to pray, "Our Father who art in Heaven." + +"Blanked if he ain't bluffed again! We've got to wait till he begins to +shoot, I guess," said "Peachy," mixing his figures. + +The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving debtor and the parallel +passage containing the matchless story of the sinful woman and the proud +Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, which had hitherto +carried the strident note of nervousness, mellowed into rich and +subduing fulness. The men listened with that hushed attention that they +give when words are getting to the heart. The utter simplicity of the +reader's manner, the dignity of his bearing, the quiet strength that +showed itself in every tone, and the undercurrent of emotion that +made the voice vibrate like a stringed instrument, all these, with the +marvellous authoritative tenderness of the great utterance on a theme so +closely touching their daily experience, gripped these men and held them +in complete thrall. + +When the reading was done the doctor stood for some moments looking his +audience quietly in the face. He knew them all, men from the camps and +the line, men from the hills and mining claims, men from the saloons +and the gambling hells. Many he had treated professionally, some he +had himself nursed back to health, others he had rescued from those +desperate moods that end in death. Others again--and these not a few--he +had "cleaned out" at poker or "Black Jack." But to all of them he +was "white." Not so to himself. It was a very humble man and a very +penitent, that stood looking them in the face. His first words were a +confession. + +"I am not worthy to stand here before you," he began, in a low, clear +tone, "God knows, you know, and I know. I am here for two reasons: one +is that I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard Boyle"--here a gasp +of surprise was audible from one and another in the audience--"a man you +know to be a good man, better than ever I can hope to be." + +"Durned if he is!" grunted "Peachy" to "Mexico." "Ain't in the same +bunch!" + +"An' that's thrue fer ye," answered Tommy. But "Mexico" paid no heed +to these remarks. He was staring at the speaker with the look of a man +wholly bewildered. + +"And the other reason is," continued, the doctor, "that I have something +which I think it fair to tell you men. Like a lot of you, I have +carried a name that is not my own." Here significant looks were gravely +exchanged. "They gave it to me by mistake when I reached the Pass. I +didn't care much at that time about names or anything else, so I let it +go. There are times in a fellow's life when he's not unwilling to forget +his name. My name is Boyle." And then, in sentences simple, clean-cut, +and terse, he told of his boyhood days, the Old Mill, the two boys +growing up together, their love for and their loyalty to each other, +their struggles and their success. Then came a pause. The speaker had +obviously come to a difficult spot in his story. The men waited in +earnest, grave, and deeply moved expectation. "At that time a great +calamity came to me--no matter what--and it threw me clear off my +balance. I lost my head and lost my nerve, and just then--" again the +speaker paused, as if to gather strength to continue--"and just then +my brother did me a wrong. Not being in a condition to judge fairly, I +magnified the wrong a thousand-fold and I tried to tear my brother out +of my heart. I could not and I would not forgive him, and I couldn't +cease to love him. I lived a life of misery, misery so great that it +drove me from everything in earth that I held dear, and for three years +I went steadily down from bad to worse. I came to the Crow's Nest a year +and a half ago. My life since then most of you know well." + +"Bedad we do! An' Hivin bliss ye!" burst forth Tommy Tate, who had found +the greatest difficulty in controlling his emotions of indignation and +grief during the doctor's self-condemnatory tale. At Tommy's words a +quiet thrill ran through the crowd, for few men of those present +but held the doctor in affectionate esteem. The sins of which he +was conscious and which humiliated him before them were, in their +estimation, but trivial. + +For a moment the speaker was thrown off his track by Tommy's outburst, +but, recovering himself, he went on. "It would be wrong to say that my +life here has been all bad. I have been able to serve many of you, +but my work has done far more for me than it has for you. But for it I +should have long ago gone down out of sight. I confess that it has been +a hard fight for me, an awful fight, to stay at my work, but the day +that I heard that my brother was your missionary brought me the hardest +fight I had had for many a day. I wanted to get away from the past. For +nearly four years I had been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I +had begun to forget a little, but that day it all came back. This week +I met my brother. I found him dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn +Valley. That morning my heart carried hell in it. To-day it is like what +I think heaven must be." As he spoke these words a light broke over +his face, and again he stood silent, striving to regain control of his +voice. + +"Blanked if he don't hold the cards!" said "Mexico" in a thick voice to +"Peachy" Budd. + +"Full flush," answered "Peachy." + +"Mexico" was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his untutored +nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a man in torture. +His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under his shaggy +eyebrows. + +"How it came about," continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, "I am +not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it was God's great +mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out of my heart. I +forgave my brother that day--and--God forgave me. That's all there is +to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever come to me. I have got +my brother back just as when we were little chaps at the Old Mill." A +sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and +the strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort to master the +emotions surging through his soul. + +Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. "Peachy" Budd was +swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, "Mexico's" swarthy face +betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had grasped the back of the +seat before him and was leaning toward the speaker as if held under an +hypnotic spell. + +Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. "I have just a word +more to say. I would like to give credit for this that happened to me to +the One we have been reading about this afternoon, and I do so with all +my heart. I came near being coward enough and mean enough to go away +without owning this up before you. How He did it, I do not pretend +to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did it, and that's what chiefly +concerns me. And what He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. +And now I've got to square up some things. 'Mexico'--" At the sound of +his name "Mexico" started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, +with a quick motion, toward his hip--"I've taken a lot from you. I'd +like to pay it back." The voice was humble, earnest, kind. + +"Mexico," taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side of +his mouth, stood up and drawled out, "Haow? Me? Pay me back? Blanked if +you do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it?" + +"Yes, I played fair, 'Mexico,' but--" + +"Then go to hell!" "Mexico's" tone was not at all unfriendly, but his +vocabulary was limited, and he was evidently deeply stirred. "We're +squar' an'--an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put it thar!" +With a single stride "Mexico" was over the seat that separated him from +the platform and reached out his hand. The doctor took it in a hard +grip. + +"Look here, men," he said, when "Mexico" had resumed his seat, "I've got +to do something with this money. I've got at least five thousand that +don't belong to me." + +"'Tain't ours," called a voice. + +"Men," continued the doctor, "I'm starting out on a new track. I want +to straighten out the past all I can. I can't keep this money. I'd feel +like a thief." + +But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and one and all protested +to each other, in tones that were quite audible over the hall and with +anathemas of more or less terrible import, that the money was not theirs +and that they would not touch it. The doctor listened for a minute or +more and then, with the manner of one closing a discussion, he said, +"All right. If you won't help me I'll have to find some way, myself, of +straightening this up. This is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and +I'm not any better than the rest of you, but I'd like to be a great deal +better man than I am, and, with God's help, I'm going to try. That's my +religion." + +And with these words he sat down, leaving the people still staring at +him and waiting for something in the way of closing exercises to what +must have been the most extraordinary religious service in all their +experience. Softly, Margaret began to play the old hymn, "Nearer, My +God, to Thee!" The men, accepting it as a signal, rose to their feet and +began to sing, and with these great words of aspiration ringing through +their hearts they passed out into the night. + +Among the many who lingered to speak to the doctor were "Mexico," +"Peachy," and, of course, his faithful follower, Tommy Tate. "Mexico" +drew him off to one corner. + +"Say, pard," he began, "you've done me up many a time before, but +blanked if yeh haven't hit me this time the worst yet! When you was +talkin' about them two little chaps--" here "Mexico's" hard face began +to work and his voice to quiver--"you put the knife right in here. I had +a brother once," he continued in a husky voice. "I wish to God someone +had choked the blank nonsense out of me, for I done him a wrong an' I +wasn't man enough to own up. An' that's what started me in all this hell +business I've been chasin' ever since." + +The doctor took him by the arm and walked him out of the room. "Take +Miss Robertson home," he said to Tommy as he passed. + +An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly exhausted as his iron +nerve and muscle would allow him to be. "I say, Margaret, this thing is +wonderful! There's no explaining it by any physical or mental law that +I know." Then, after a pause, he added, with an odd thrill of tenderness +in his voice, "I believe we shall hear good things of 'Mexico' yet." + +And so they did, but that is another tale. + + + + +XXII + +THE HEART'S REST + + +There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than the +valley that runs back from that far penetrating arm of the sea, Loch +Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and gloomy glens, +one comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east and north +winds and open to the warm western sea and to the long sunny days of +summer. It is a valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents of +sea and heather, and shut in from the roar and rush of the great world, +just over the ragged rim of the craggy hills that guard it. A veritable +heaven on earth for the nerve-racked and brain-wearied, for the +heart-sick and soul-burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of +Ruthven Hall, a kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the valley's +head, to bring hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as +needed the healing that soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours +filled with love that understands, can give. + +To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh from +the shelter of her English home, the bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and +here for five happy summers they had come from the strenuous life of +Diplomatic Service to find rest. Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his +work was done, still a young man, to rest under the yews in the little +churchyard near the Hall, leaving his lady with her little daughter and +her infant son to administer his vast estates. After the first sharp +grief had passed, Lady Ruthven took up her burden and, with patient +courage, bore it for the sake of the dead first, and then for the sake +of the living. Round her son, growing into sturdy young manhood, her +heart's roots wound themselves, striking deep into his life, till one +day he, too, was laid beneath the yew trees in the churchyard. From that +deep shadow she came forth, bearing her cross of service to her kind, +to live a life fragrant with the airs of Heaven, in fellowship with Him +who, for love of man, daily gave Himself to die. + +It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of heart +and clean of life, that Jack Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and +its dwellers. The young men first met in London, and later in Edinburgh, +where both were pursuing their professions with a devotion that did not +forbid attention to sundry social duties, or prevent them from taking +long walks over the Lammermuirs on Saturday afternoons. To Ruthven +Hall, Alan was permitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he was +secretly convinced, stood sorely in need of just such benediction as +his saintly aunt could bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's coming to +Ruthven Hall was the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision +of his profession in the light of that great ministry to the world's +sick and wounded and weary by Him who came to the world "to heal." In +another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it was +the day on which his eyes first fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. +Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven Hall, and thus +it fell that when, on one of his visits to the great metropolis, he +found Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and forbidden to sing +again for a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, he bethought him of +the little valley of rest in the far western Highlands. Straightway +he confided to Lady Ruthven his concern for his co-patriot and friend, +giving as much of her story as he thought it well that both Lady Ruthven +and her daughter should know. Hence, when they went north to their +Highland valley again, they carried with them Iola, to be rested and +nursed, and to be healed in heart, too, if that could be. For Lady +Ruthven, with her eyes made keen by grief and love, had not been long +in discovering that, with Iola, the deeper sickness was that which no +physician's medicine can reach. + +Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to +their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most tender +nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning. + +"She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this terrible +restlessness," said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was visiting at the +Hall. + +"Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, "but not altogether, I fear. +This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser out again. +But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly help. She wrote +yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, +has kept in touch with him." + +"Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, "would you advise that he +should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being perfectly +disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know." + +"Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but--" + +"You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a +girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of her, as from +what you have told me of him he must be." + +"Unworthy!" cried Jack. "Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends upon +what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but he's a man +through and through, and he's clean and honourable." + +"Ah," said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, "then would to Heaven she +could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her bones." + +"At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter." + +And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in +providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girl. +Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her +talk with Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such +times followed by quick penitence. + +"Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after one of her little outbreaks, +"I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so perfectly +self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. You must have +been born good and sweet." + +For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back swiftly +to long gone years. "No, dear," she said gently; "I have much to be +thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but He was +patient and bore long with me. And He is still bearing." + +"Tell me how you learned," asked Iola timidly, and then Lady Ruthven +told her life story, without tears, without repinings, while Iola +wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the influence of it never +departed from her. Never were the days quite so bad again, but every day +while she struggled to subdue her impatience even in thought, she kept +looking for word from across the sea with a longing so intense that all +in the house came to share it with her. + +"Oh! if we only knew where to get him!" groaned Jack Charrington to her +one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her happy past, she had +opened her heart. "Why does he keep away?" he added bitterly. + +"It is my fault, Jack," she replied. "He is not to blame. No one is to +blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure he will come, I +only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if--" + +"Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are +getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly." + +"Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling to grieve him. "I would +like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am sure to hear soon +now." + +They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger +wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching. + +"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "there it is!" + +"Come, Iola," said Jack, almost sternly, "come in and sit down." So +saying, he brought her into the library and made her recline upon the +couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of her waking hours +were spent. + +It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the +library. "Shall I open it?" he asked, with an anxious look at Iola. + +"Yes," she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart. + +Lady Ruthven came to her side. "Iola, darling," she said, taking both +her hands in hers, "it is good to feel that God's arms are about us +always." + +"Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, regaining her composure; +"I'm learning. I'm not afraid." + +Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read +the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back +upon her couch. "God is good," she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over +her. "You were right. Teach me how to trust Him better." + +"Are you all right, Iola?" said Jack, anxiously feeling her pulse. + +"Quite right, Jack, dear," she said. + +"Then hooray!" cried Jack, starting up. "Let's see, 'Coming Silurian +seventh. Barney.'" he read aloud. "The seventh was yesterday. Six days. +She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be here by Monday at latest." + +"Saturday, Jack," said Iola, opening her eyes. + +"Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. +Meantime, you're not to fret." And he frowned sternly down upon her. + +"Fret?" she cried, looking up brightly. "Never more, Jack. I shall never +fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for these five days, +every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well." + +It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every hour, +every minute, she appeared to gain strength. She ate with relish and +slept like a child. The old feverish restlessness left her, and she laid +aside many of her invalid ways. + +"You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I suppose, Charrington?" said +Alan on Thursday, after the Silurian had been reported. + +"I've just been thinking," replied Jack, with careful deliberation, +"that it would be almost better you should go, Ruthven. You see you're +the man of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger to tell +him." + +"Come, Charrington," replied his friend, "you don't often play the +coward. You've simply got to go. But why should you tell?" + +"Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce Fraser's he +would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly words yet, 'Quite hopeless. +Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I say, old man, I +suppose I ought to go, but you've got to come along and make talk. I'll +simply blubber right out when I see him. You know I'm awfully fond of +the old boy." + +"I say, Charrington, I've got it! Take my aunt with you." + +Jack gasped. "By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but she's the +saintly kind that delights to bear other people's burdens." + +And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the boat +and bring Barney, with all speed, to Ruthven Hall. + + +At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with outstretched +hands, crying, "Barney, old boy, we're glad to see you! Here, let me +present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola is staying." With +feverish haste he hurried Barney through the crowds, bustling hither +and thither about his luggage and giving himself not a moment for +conversation till they were seated in the first-class apartment carriage +that was to carry them to Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled +in their places when the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, +dropped to silence. + +"You have bad news for me," said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven steadily +in the face. "Has anything happened?" + +"No, Dr. Boyle," replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly than was +her wont, "but--" and here she paused, shrinking from delivering the +mortal stab, "but we are anxious about our dear Iola." + +"Tell me the worst, Lady Ruthven," said Barney. + +"That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and her +heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful. It is better she should +be kept so." + +Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of their +deep sockets with the piteous, mute appeal of an animal stricken to +death. He moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, kept +his eyes fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking relief. Charrington +turned his head away. + +"We feel thankful for her great courage," said Lady Ruthven, in her +sweet, calm voice, "and for her peace of mind." + +At last Barney found his voice. "Does she suspect anything?" he asked +hoarsely. + +"I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager all +summer to get back to her home--to you--to those she loved. She will +rejoice to see you." + +Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long moan. +Jack looked out upon the fleeting landscape dimmed by the tears he dared +not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop by drop, Barney drank +his cup to the bitter dregs. + +"We try to think of the bright side," at length said Lady Ruthven +gently. + +Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at her in dumb misery. + +"There is the bright side," she continued, "the side of the immortal +hope. We like to think of the better country. That is our real home. +There, only, are our treasures safe." She was giving him time to get +hold of himself after the first deadly stab. But Barney made no reply +except to gravely bow. "It is, indeed, a better country," she added +softly as if to herself, "the only place we immortals can call home." +Then she rose. "Come, Jack," she said, "I think Dr. Boyle would like to +be alone." Before she turned away to another section of the carriage, +she offered him her hand with a grave, pitying smile. + +Barney bowed reverently over her hand. "I am grateful to you," he said +brokenly, "believe me." His face was contorted with the agony that +filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her speechless and in +silence they turned away from him, and for the long hour that followed +they left him with his grief. + +When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, carrying +the air of one who has fought his fight and has not been altogether +beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the great door of +Ruthven Hall. + +"Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room," said Lady Ruthven; "I shall +see Iola and send for him." But just then her daughter came down the +stairs. "Mamma," she said in a low, quick tone, "she wants him at once." + +"Yes, dear, I know," replied her mother, "but it will be better that +I--" + +But there was a light cry, "Barney!" and, looking up, they all saw, +standing at the head of the great staircase, a figure slight and frail, +but radiant. It was Iola. + +"Pardon me, Lady Ruthven," said Barney, and was off three steps at a +time. + +"Come, children." Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the library +that opened off the hall, where they stood gazing at each other, awed +and silent. + +"Heaven help them!" at length gasped Jack. + +"Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington," said Miss Ruthven. "You are hurting +me." + +"Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than I can +well stand." + +"It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington," said Lady +Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that subdued all emotion and recalled them +to self-control. "You will see that Dr. Boyle gets to his room?" + +"I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later," replied Jack. +"Yes, I confess," he continued, answering Miss Ruthven's look, "I am +a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes things tremendously. He was +quite mad about her years ago, fiercely mad about her, and when the +break came it almost ruined him. How he will stand this, I don't know, +but I am afraid to see him." + +"This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven," said Alan. "It +should not be prolonged, do you think?" + +"It is well that they should be alone for a time," she replied, her own +experience making her wise in the ways of the breaking heart. + +When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs Iola +moved toward him with arms upraised. "Barney! Barney! Have you come to +me at last?" she cried. + +A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. He +took her gently into his arms and, restraining his passionate longing +to crush her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, gazing +into her glowing, glorious eyes the while. "Where?" he murmured. + +"This door, Barney." + +He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a couch +he found there. Then, without a word, he put his cheek close to hers +upon the pillow, murmuring over and over, "Iola--Iola--my love--my +love!" + +"Why, Barney," she cried, with a little happy laugh, "don't tremble so. +Let me look at you. See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and calm. Look +at me, Barney," she pleaded, "I am hungry to look at your face. I've +only seen it in my dreams for so long." She raised herself on her arm +and lifted his face from the pillow. "Now let me sit up. I shall never +see enough of you. Never! Never! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was!" + +"It was I who was wicked," said Barney bitterly, "wicked and selfish and +cruel to you and to others." + +"Hush!" She laid her hand on his lips. "Sit here beside me. Now, Barney, +don't spoil this one hour. Not one word of the past. You were a little +hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew you were right. I +was wrong. But I thought there would be more in that other life. Even at +its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The great 'Lohengrin' night when +they brought me out so many times--" + +"I was there," interrupted Barney, his voice still full of bitter pain. + +"I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It was +for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my body, went all into Ortrud that +night." + +"It was a great, a truly great thing, Iola." + +"Yes," said Iola, with a proud little laugh, "I think the dear old +Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great performance, but I +waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I found +that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, how I wanted you, +Barney, then--and ever since!" + +"If I had only known!" groaned Barney. + +"Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out +of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself--now or +ever--promise me, promise me!" she cried, eagerly insistent. + +"But I do, Iola." + +"Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will you, +Barney?" The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but the desire +to gratify her. + +"I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word." + +"Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling." She wreathed her arms +about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. "Oh!" she said with a +deep sigh, "I shall rest now--rest--rest. That's what I've been longing +for. I could not rest, Barney." + +Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful +restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart filled with +a fierce refusal of his lot. + +"There is no one like you, Barney, after all," she murmured, nestling +down with a delicious sigh of content. "You are so strong. You will make +me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than for months." + +Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the +treacherous disease. + +"Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except just +'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? After your +long silence you might--" She raised her head and looked into his eyes +with her old saucy smile. + +"There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold you +like this? But you must not talk too much." + +"Tell me something about yourself," she cried. "What? Where? How? Why? +No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest." + +"It is hardly worth while, Iola," he replied, "and it would take a long +time." + +"Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. All +the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven than this? +Tell me about Margaret and--yes--and Dick," she shyly added. "Are they +well and happy?" + +"Now, darling," said Barney, stroking her hair; "just rest there and +I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust yourself." + +"Go on then, Barney," she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss, +nestling down again. "Oh, lovely rest!" + +Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days +together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy +that had come to them all. "And it was your letter that did it all, +Iola," he said. + +"No," she replied gently, "it was our Father's goodness. I see things +so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is an angel from +Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!" + +"I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for." + +A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady +Ruthven, with Jack in the background, appeared. + +"Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. Boyle +would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?" + +"No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night to +dinner." + +"Is it wise, do you think?" said Lady Ruthven gravely. "You must save +your strength now, you know." + +"Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night," she pleaded. "I'm not going to +be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. I am going to +eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them I can go +down. Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you like. I am +going, Jack," she continued with something of her old imperious air. + +Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers +upon her wrist. She was growing excited. "Well, I think she might go +down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best." + +"If she is good she might," said Jack doubtfully. "But she must promise +to be quiet." + +"Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good--as good as I can." +With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content themselves. + +At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her +wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked +himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been mistaken. +As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever +she was! How quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, +glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds +about her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with +imagination's divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of +a change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her +conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it +was not these that made the change. There was a new quality of soul in +her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite +aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth, +earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing about her. + +To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in +Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in a +new and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet +it filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing +its claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the +heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in +spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, +before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale +of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western +Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, +the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary +life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the +beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip +and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held +the gaze of the whole company. + +"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But it's +better," she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy +laugh, "to be a woman." + +It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's +attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close. + +"Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?" cried Iola, as her hostess made a move +to rise. "What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you are not going +to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you know, and I +believe I feel like singing to-night." + +"My dear, my dear," said Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should exert +yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does your doctor +say?" + +"Barney?" + +"Barney, indeed!" echoed Jack indignantly. "Oh, the ingratitude of the +female heart! Here for all these weeks I have--" + +"Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough to +banish me." + +"An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an +atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting +conversation," said Jack gravely. + +"And music, Doctor?" inquired Iola, with mock humility. + +"Well, I'll sing a little myself," replied Jack. + +"Oh, my dear Iola," cried Miss Ruthven, "hasten to bed, I beg of +you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear +Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the +Highlands last year," she continued with mischievous gravity. + +"Ah," said Jack, much flattered, "I don't quite--" + +"Oh, the horn, you know." + +"Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing." + +"Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the--ah--experience." + +"How do you feel now, Iola?" said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon +her pulse. + +"Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And she ran up her chromatics +in a voice rich and strong and clear. + +"Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. "Her pulse is strong, +even, steady. Her respiration is normal." + +"I told you!" cried Iola triumphantly. "Now you will let me sing--not +a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie. +Barney's mother used to sing it." + +"My dear Iola," entreated Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should +venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?" + +"Don't ask me," said Barney. "I should forbid it were it anyone else." + +"But it isn't anyone else," persisted Iola, "and my doctor says yes. +I'll only hum, Jack." + +"Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and +such frills." + +She took her guitar. "I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother," she +said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect +reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang +the Highland lament, "O'er the Moor." + + + "O'er the moor I wander lonely, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + Where are all the joys I cherished? + With my darling they have perished, + And they will return no more. + + "I loved thee first, I loved thee only, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + I loved thee from the day I met thee. + What care I though all forget thee? + I will love thee evermore." + + +And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, "You +never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you." And in a low, +soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little +song that described so fittingly her own experience, "My Heart's Rest." + + + "I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, + And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, + When the Master came to close His fold + And saw that one had strayed. + + "Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, + And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till + The Master's voice searched vale and hill: + I heard and fled afraid. + + "Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. + And the stars went out, and the day was gone, + Then the Master found, laid me upon + His bosom, unafraid." + + +A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out +of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette +and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it +passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate. + +"I feel as if I could sleep now," said Iola. "Barney, carry me." Like a +tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. "Good-night, dear +friends, all," she said. "What a happy evening it has been." Then, with +a little cry, "Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping," she locked her arms +tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. "Goodnight, Barney, my +love, my own love," she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. "How +good you are to me--how good to have you. Now kiss me--quick--don't +wait--again, dear--good-night." Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her +head sank upon his breast. + +"Iola!" he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down +into her face. He carried her to the open window. "Oh, my God! My God! +She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!" + +But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, +and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal +ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested +upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart +was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay +as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes +full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned +and left him alone with his dead. + + +For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the +midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had +not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not +snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near. + +At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and +lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot +where her dead lay. + +"We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here," she +said. "You know we love her dearly." + +"It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven," Barney replied, +his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. "She loved +this valley, and it was here she first found rest." + +"Yes, she loves this valley," replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept +Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. "And here she found peace +and perfect love again." + +A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London +to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride +in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with +him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she +had made her London debut in "Lohengrin." There in the sunny valley they +laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their +tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, +only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace. + + + + +XXIII + +THE LAST CALL + + +Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his +discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various +forms he felt that he stood almost alone. + +At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed +him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was +familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches +to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion +was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the +Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of +development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other +upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly +on that ground. + +"Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, "how did the +meeting go last night?" + +"I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all." + +"Yes," replied Daggett, "your men are all right in their opinions, but +they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have +told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't +stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with +sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your +nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes +to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put +together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. +Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their +husbands' business." + +Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was +not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's +review of the situation. + +"There is something in what you say," he conceded, "but--" + +"Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, "you know better than that. This +town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, +he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey +and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable +McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own +business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor +Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever +since. The safe thing is to do nothing." + +"You seem to know all about it," said Dick. "What's the good of your +paper? Why don't you get after these men?" + +"My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite +true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of +public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being +an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. +Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations +that determine newspaper policy." + +Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. "It's true. It's terribly true," +he said. "The people don't want anything better than they have. The +saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. +But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an +opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump +into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand +this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take +a hand." + +Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The +Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with +a small g." + +"I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past. I +see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, +too, unless you change, out of existence." + +"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it +arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but +the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?" + +"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick +and running this library and clubroom business." + +"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The railroad +men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this +constituency?" + +Dick laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy +him. Oh, I know the game." + +Daggett was silenced for some moments. + +"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our coming +Member." He opened the door. "Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the +Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle--Mr. +Hull, the coming Member for this constituency." + +"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent," +said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of +the political parties or their representatives. "I must get along. But, +Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell +business." With this he closed the door. + +"Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, "but a little unpractical, +eh?" + +"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think +he is on the right track." + +"How? What do you mean?" + +"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this +country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks +that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can +keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over +night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see +them, too." + +"Signs?" inquired Hull. + +"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held +responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,' +too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's +brother is taking a hand, I believe." + +"The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him." + +"Do you know him?" + +"Not well." + +"You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't +forget it." + +Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable +wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for +the tenderfoot. + +"All right," said Daggett, "you may sniff. I've watched him and I've +discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker +player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit +poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer." + +"What's his game?" + +"Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here +at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. +Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen +to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing +clubrooms." + +"By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' +think of it?" + +"Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's +a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. +He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'" + +"What about 'Mexico'?" + +"Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit, +divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting +queer." + +Hull was at once on the alert. "That's interesting. You are sure of your +facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign +is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to +be considered." + +But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political +machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the +saloon and "red light" influence to be easily emancipated. The business +interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent +upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had +the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for +reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the +railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic +lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the +saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, +unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to +cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. +Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an +endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective +were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an +unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of +the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was +too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man +"who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or +blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker." + +"He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in reply to an +influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine. + +Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. +"Mexico" and the organization of which he was the head were instructed +to "run him out." Receiving his orders, "Mexico" called his agents +together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately +developed, one party led by "Peachy" being strongly in favour of +obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly +opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. "Mexico" sat silent, watchful, +impassive. At length, "Peachy," in full swing of an impassioned and +sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was +called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief. + +"Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do +something." + +A grim laugh at "Peachy's" expense went round the company. + +"Do somethin'?" snarled "Peachy," stung to fury, "I'll do somethin' one +of these days. I've stood you all I want." + +"Peachy's" oaths were crude in comparison with "Mexico's," but his fury +lent them force. "Mexico" turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him. + +"Do something? Meaning?" + +"Never mind," growled "Peachy." + +"Git!" "Mexico" pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of +doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that +meeting, but banishment from the company of which "Mexico" was head, and +that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. "Peachy" +was startled. + +"You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled apologetically. "I didn't +mean for to--" + +"You git!" repeated "Mexico," turning the pointing finger from the door +to the face of the startled wretch. + +With a fierce oath "Peachy" reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. +"Mexico" moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except +that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat +over the piercing black eyes. + +"You dog!" he ground out through his clenched teeth, "you know you can't +bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me +up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!" + +The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while +"Mexico's" hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly "Peachy" rose +and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage +beast. At the door he paused. + +"'Mexico,'" he said, "is this the last between you and me?" + +"Mexico" kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man +backing out of the door. + +"Git out, you cur!" he said, with contemptuous deliberation. + +"Take that, then." + +Like a flash, "Mexico" threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as +one. A slight smile curled "Mexico's" lip. + +"Got him that time, I reckon." + +"Hurt, 'Mexico'?" anxiously inquired his friends. + +"Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight." The bartender and some +others came running in with anxious faces. "Never mind, boys," said +"Mexico." "'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him +some." + +"Say, there's blood here!" said the bartender. "He's been bleedin' bad." + +"Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business." + +The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired. + +"Now, boys, listen to me," said "Mexico" impressively, leaning over the +table. "Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine, +and the man that touches him touches me." There was an ominous silence. + +"Just as you say, 'Mexico,'" said one of the men, "but I see the finish +of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you +know he ain't the kind that quits." + +"You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of +this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. +But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay." + +As the meeting broke up, "Mexico's" friends warned him against "Peachy." + +"Pshaw! 'Peachy'!" said "Mexico" contemptuously. "He couldn't hold his +gun steady at me." + +"He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round." + +But "Mexico" only spat out his contempt for anything that "Peachy" could +do, and went calmly on his way, "keeping the boys in line." But he began +to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he +could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness +on the part of the boys to "line up" at the word, but there was no +corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the "same old +party." There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part +of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been +several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm +for all "Mexico" represented. They "lined up" still, but beyond this +they did not go. + +The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the +attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the +polls. "It's that cursed doctor!" he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member +for the district. "He's been working a deep game. Of course, his +brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we +know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm +afraid of him." + +"Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing," said McKenty. + +"How?" + +"Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without +grease." McKenty spoke out of considerable experience. + +"That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of +another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys +all round." + +"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could take +a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too." + +"That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But you +can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs +altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one +doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. +He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can +get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says." + +McKenty thought deeply for some moments. "Well," he said, finally, +"something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage +to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?" + +"'Mexico'!" exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. "There's +the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be +strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be +after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The +best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, +sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right." + +"Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of +loosening up people." + +"But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work +here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's +some religion in it." + +McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke. + +"I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. "The doctor's got it +hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I +was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair +curl." And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting +in question. + +"Well," said McKenty, "I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' +pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. +You've simply got to get after him." + +This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, +looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he +perceived "Mexico" sauntering down the other side of the street. + +"There he is now," he cried, going toward the door. "Hi! 'Mexico'!" he +called, and "Mexico" came slouching across. "Ugly looking beggar, ain't +he?" said the editor. "Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!" + +"Mornin'," grunted "Mexico," nodding first to the editor and then to +McKenty. + +"How is things, 'Mexico'?" said the editor, in his most ingratiating +manner. + +"How?" + +"How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know." + +"Comin' on soon?" + +"Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be +ready, though." + +"Can't be too soon," said "Mexico." + +"How is that?" + +"Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion," with a glance at +the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. "People beginnin' to go +to meetin' in this country." + +"I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, +facetiously. + +"Mexico" turned his eyes slowly upon the Member. + +"Anything to say agin it?" + +"Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's +got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip." + +"Who says?" + +"Oh, I hear it everywhere." + +"Guess it must be right, then," replied "Mexico," grimly. + +"And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to +the mourners' bench." + +"Do, eh?" + +"Look here, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, +"you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you, +are you?" + +"Don't know about that." + +"You don't?" + +"No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm +working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my +way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. +Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon." + +"Well, do you imagine the doctor has?" + +"Mexico" paused, then said thoughtfully, "Blanked if I can git on to his +game!" + +"Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You +don't really think he has your interest at heart?" + +"Can't quite tell." "Mexico" wore a vexed and thoughtful air. "Wish I +could. If I thought so I'd--" + +"What?" + +"Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!" There was a sudden +gleam from under "Mexico's" heavy brows and a ring in his usually +drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. "There ain't +too many of that kind raound." + +"What do you think of that?" inquired the editor, as "Mexico" sauntered +out of the door. + +"Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it +ought to be enforced." + +"That means war," said the editor. + +"Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd +give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country." + +But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the +country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should +so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his +work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to +the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of +the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines +opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both +labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive +ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of +miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long +campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors +were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so +urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were +concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The +miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched +conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous +objection. + +How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, +a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on +the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where +it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his +return from Scotland. + +"We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before," +grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret. + +"It's the universal law," replied Dick. "Some men must die for their +nation. It's been the way from the first." + +"But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work +yourself to death as you are doing?" said Margaret, anxiously. "You know +you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came +back." + +Barney only smiled. "That would be no great matter," he said, lightly. +"But there is no fear of me," he added. "I don't pine for an early +death, you know. I've got a lot to live for." + +There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave +in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return, +and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and +speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light +and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and +Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's +mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. +Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and +tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had +gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend. + +"It would be easier for me not to speak of her," he had said on his +return, "but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to +talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy." + +And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till +at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only +deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory +of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of +each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney. +It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of +his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's +story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months, +combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even +in the most radiant moments of her life. + +"There is only place for gratitude," he said, one evening, to them. "Why +should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or +to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from +pain, and her last evening so full of joy?" + +It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps +to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he +went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in +him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, +but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the +words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. +The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm +possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to +give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical +well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and +spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had +initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not +to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element +and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the +success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as +ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, +they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As +"Mexico" said, they "couldn't get onto his game." And none of them was +more completely puzzled than was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully +acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new +spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same +time, however, "Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and +then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when +"Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself +up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who +lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and "Mexico" was +kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious +to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil +and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it +difficult for "Mexico" to accept it as being sincere. + +"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery +deepened. "What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?" + +One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve +miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had +been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with a wrathful +affection. + +"What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" asked +him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had +come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto you. It's all just +d--, that is, cursed foolishness!" + +"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll +tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before +"Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for some time." +He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always +formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story +of the two debtors. "Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last +spring?" "Mexico" nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. "I had a +big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, +and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long +enough to pay back what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent +tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. +"That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a great +thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! +they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night +like this. And don't you think that's good enough?" + +Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the +sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale. +After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis: + +"You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want." + +"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I +haven't, have I?" + +"Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't." + +"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my +friend." He put out his hand, which "Mexico" gripped and held fast. +"But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants you more than +I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend." + +"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess not. +That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. +It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It +would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. +But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that +mountain there." + +"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor, +quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' +it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!" + +"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a sudden +suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, +are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet." + +"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a +good thing and I want my friend to have it." + +When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at the +door. "I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of +yours for a spell?" + +The doctor took it out of his bag. "It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can +bank on it." + +The book proved of absorbing interest to "Mexico." He read it openly in +the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book +and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable +comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read +became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor. +The book did its work with "Mexico," as it does with all who give it +place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling +in "Mexico's" mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His +discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of +poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. +For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction. +The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued +that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss +without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined +that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his +friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that +week the doctor failed to appear, and "Mexico" grew increasingly +uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness +not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined +to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged +"Mexico" into deepest gloom. + +"If he's took to bed," he said, "there ain't much hope, I guess, for +they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off." + +But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the +doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He +had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and +that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he +would be on his feet again. + +"If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month," groaned +Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed. + +"There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him," replied Margaret, +"but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton," and here she +smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, "you will help, I +am sure." + +"Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him +there." + +"Yes, a month at the very least," cried Dick. + +But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he +would be fit again. + +"It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical +Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway," said Dr. Cotton, "and I +think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen." + +"Ah," replied Margaret, "that is because you haven't known your patient +long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey." + +And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, +when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had +apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the +flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in +his hand. + +"It's fer the doctor," said Ben, "an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' +had got shot and--" + +Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's +voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two +words had caught Barney's ear, "Mexico" and "shot." + +"Let me have the wire," he said quietly, when Margaret came in. + +"I intended to give it to you, Barney," she replied as quietly. "You +will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best." + +Barney opened the telegram and read, "'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. +Wants doctor to come if possible." + +"Dr. Cotton is not in?" inquired Barney. + +"He is gone up the Big Horn." + +"We can't possibly get him to-night," replied Barney. + +Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew +that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost. + +"Take my temperature, Margaret." It was nine-nine and one-fifth. "That's +not bad," said Barney. "Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. +Yes, and more." + +Margaret turned slightly pale. "You know best, Barney," she said, "but +it may be your life, you know." + +"Yes," he replied gravely. "I take that chance. But I think I ought to +take it, don't you?" But Margaret refused to speak. "What do you think, +Margaret?" he asked. + +"Oh, Barney!" she cried, with passionate protest, "why should you give +your life for him?" + +"Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was One who gave His life for me. +Besides," he added, after a pause, "there's a fair chance that I can get +through." + +She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. "No, Barney, there's +almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!" +The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, +earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the +crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She +buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, +stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. +Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he +said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, "You expect me to do right, +Margaret." + +A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of +renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained +it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes +looked into his bravely while she answered simply, "You will do what is +right, Barney." + +Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. +"Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'" +A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently +reached "Mexico," and he would not have his friend risk his life for +him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a +light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down. + +When he entered the sick man's room "Mexico" glanced into his face. +"Good Lord, Doctor!" he cried, "you shouldn't have come! You're worse +than me!" + +"All right, 'Mexico,'" replied the doctor cheerfully. "I had to come, +you know. We can't go back on our friends." + +"Mexico" kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began +to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. "I know +now," he said hoarsely, "why He let 'em kill Him." + +"Why?" + +"Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?" + +"You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?" + +"You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed." + +The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty +wound and dangerous, but in half an hour "Mexico" was resting quietly. +Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning, +conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well +knew indicated a very serious condition. When "Mexico" woke the doctor +examined him carefully. + +"You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet +and obey orders." + +"Mexico's" hand grasped him. "Doc," he said anxiously, "you look awful +bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be terrible sick." + +"I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I +couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm glad I +came." + +"Mexico's" fierce black eyes softened. "Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I +had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know now. And I want +to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out." He waved +his hand toward the bar. + +"'Mexico,'" said Barney earnestly, "that's great! That's the best news +I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick." He took the gambler's +hand in his. "Good-bye, 'Mexico.'" His voice was earnest, almost solemn. +"You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll +never go back on a friend." + +"Mexico" reached out and held him with both hands. "Git out," he said to +the attendant. "Doc," his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew +the doctor down to him, "there ain't nobody here, is there?" he asked, +with a glance round the room. + +"No, 'Mexico,' no one." + +"Doc," he began again, his strong frame shaking, "I can't say it. It's +all in here till it hurts. You're--you're like Him, I think. You make me +think o' Him." + +Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about +his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. "God +bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word," he said. "Goodbye, my friend." + +They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's +eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through +the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every +moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave +welcoming smile. + +"Dr. Cotton has returned," she announced. "And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is +here, Barney." + +He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. "That +was right, Margaret. And Dick?" + +"Dick will be here this afternoon." + +"You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself," +said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs. + +"Let me help you, Barney," she said, putting her arms about him. "You're +the one who will not think of yourself." + +"We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson, +after all." + +The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble +and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded +immediate operation. + +"We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?" Barney asked, a +little anxiously. "An hour can't make much difference now, you know." + +"Why, certainly we shall wait," cried the doctor. + +Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent +message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious +operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of +emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. +The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of +strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his +brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal +effects. + +"Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right," he said, with +cheerful courage. + +"Of course," answered Dick, quickly. + +"But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly." + +"Quite right, Barney," said Dick again, his voice steady and even. + +The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for +a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then +the doctor came to the door. + +"Are you ready, Doctor?" said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful voice. + +"Yes, we're all ready." + +"A minute, Doctor, please," said Barney. + +The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone. + +"Just a little, word, Dick." + +"Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, "I +don't think I can." + +"Never mind then, old chap," replied Barney, putting out his hand to +him. + +"Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said Dick, instantly regaining hold +of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in +both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his +prayer, closing with the words, "And O, my Father, keep my brother +safe." "And mine," added Barney. "Amen." + +"Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready." And with a smile he met the +doctor at the door. + +In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse +told Dick all he dared not ask. + +"How long before he will be quite conscious again?" he inquired. + +"It will be an hour at least," replied the surgeon, kindly, "before he +can talk much." + +Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door +upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready +to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the last +weariness, the final strife." + +"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting +till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now." + +But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night +they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as +it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with +strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, +but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by +Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed. + +"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might have +been. He brought us two together again--us three," he corrected, +glancing at Margaret. + +"Yes, Barney," replied Dick, "nothing matters much beside that." + +"And then," continued his brother, "He let me do a little work for the +boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, +Dick. He is my friend." + +"Mine, too, Barney," said Dick; "mine forever." + +"Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a doctor, I +mean!" + +"We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear." + +"What a chance!" he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep. + +Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was +at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their +unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a +rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, +letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned +his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper. + +Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." The +great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the +mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest +upon his brother's face. "It is near now, Dick--I think--and it's not +hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think +mother--would like--to have me near." + +"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." Dick's voice was +steady and clear. + +"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An +odd little smile played over his face. "I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but +I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me." +She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb +courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, "Barney, my love! my +love!" + +Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he said, "take care--of Dick--for +me." + +"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice +carried full conviction to his mind. + +"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he +lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly +he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. "Dick, my boy," +he cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brother--my brother." He lifted +up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, +then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, +tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen. + +"He's gone, Margaret!" cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, +lifting up a white appealing face to her. "He's gone! Oh! he has left +us!" + +She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only each +other now, Dick," she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the +strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found +courage to turn again and live. + +Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through +the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. +It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a +king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. +It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a +longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street +behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps +and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large +wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid +it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, +hesitatingly, "The men would like to see him again, if you think best." + +"Tell them to come," replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the +face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most +part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked +upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph +subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat comforted. +The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss +of their friend, but to him the best had come. + +By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. "Ochone!" he sobbed, +"when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at +him I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For +themselves they must weep, but not for him. + +At length, all had gone. "Could you say a word to them, Dick?" said +Margaret. "I think he would like it." And Dick, drawing a deep breath, +went forth to them. His words were few and simple. "We must not speak +words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you +as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know you will not +forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me +to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved +and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he +gave himself to you." + +As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh +dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd +quickly made way. It was "Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon +his friends. He came up to Dick. "May I see him?" he asked humbly. + +"Come in," said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to +the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by +this time that it was to save "Mexico" the doctor had given his life. +With heads bared they waited till "Mexico" came out again. As he +appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm supporting him, the +men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce, +gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a moment "Mexico" stood +leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew himself erect. + +"Boys," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly audible +over the crowd, "he died because he wouldn't go back on his friend. He +gave me this." He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and +carried it reverently to his lips. "I'm a-goin' to follow that trail." + +Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and +then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, +even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but +remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of +that strong love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for +His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend. + + + + +XXIV + +FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + +Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had +been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full pride of +their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of +old, the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake +fences, sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the rails peeped the +clover, red and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the +dogwood, while the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green +clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The singing voices of summer +were all a-throb, filling the air with great antiphonies of praise, till +this good June day was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life. + +At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. "I'll +wait here," she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up the chaste +beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his fierce +rays. "I must get into the shade," she said, climbed the fence, and, on +the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself down in the shade of +the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to her. How well +she remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would +never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that only love +knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem. + +A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, +remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help +and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, "Take +care of Dick for me," had moved her to offer with shy courage to go back +with him. But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of any such +persuasion. + +"You must not come to me for pity," he said, bidding her good-bye. + +But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and +wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's heroic +service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had +returned. To-day he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah, +there he was now. On the crest of the hill he would turn and look toward +her. There, he had turned. + +As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, "Margaret!" +and came running toward her. + +She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the +throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him. + +Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there +waiting. "Margaret!" he cried again, with a note of anxiety in his voice +that trembled under the intensity of his feeling. + +But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her. +"Oh, I am so glad," she whispered to herself. Dick came toward her +slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from +her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the +blue eyes lifted so bravely to his. + +"For pity's sake, Margaret?" he asked, the note of anxiety deepening in +his voice. + +For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. "Yes," +she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, "and for +love's sake, too." + +And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full +from earth to heaven above. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOCTOR *** + +***** This file should be named 3242.txt or 3242.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/4/3242/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain etexts, and royalty free copyright licenses. +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.07.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com. + + + + + +THE DOCTOR + +A TALE OF THE ROCKIES + + +by RALPH CONNOR + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I. THE OLD STONE MILL + +II. THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + +III. THE RAISING + +IV. THE DANCE + +V. THE NEW TEACHER + +VI. THE YOUNG DOCTOR + +VII. THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + +VIII. BEN'S GANG + +IX. LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + +X. FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + +XI. IOLA'S CHOICE + +XII. HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + +XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + +XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + +XV. THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + +XVI. THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + +XVII. THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + +XVIII. THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + +XIX. THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + +XX. UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + +XXI. TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + +XXII. THE HEART'S REST + +XXIII. THE LAST CALL + +XXIV. FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + + + +THE DOCTOR + + +I + +THE OLD STONE MILL + + +There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. +One, from the sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, flower- +decked banks, wound between snake fences, along which straggled +irregular clumps of hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, +and beyond which stretched on one side fields of grain just heading +out this bright June morning, and on the other side a long strip of +hay fields of mixed timothy and red clover, generous of colour and +perfume, which ran along the snake fence till it came to a potato +patch which, in turn, led to an orchard where the lane began to +drop down to the Mill valley. + +At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic +aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For there the valley with +its sweet loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the +right, out of an angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the +pond which brimmed gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond +the pond a sloping grassy sward showed green under an open beech +and maple woods. On the hither side of the pond an orchard ran +down hill to the water's edge, and at the nearer corner of the dam, +among a clump of ancient willows, stood the Old Stone Mill, with +house attached, and across the mill yard the shed and barn, all +neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left of the mill, with +its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond, wandered off +green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the Mill +Creek, foaming as if enraged that it should have been even for a +brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, +beyond the many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, +where the stream entered, and maple and beech on the higher levels. +That was one way to the mill, the way the farmers took with their +grist or their oats for old Charley Boyle to grind. + +The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession +Line, which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere +foot path, sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or +meal when the barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led +through the beech and maple woods to the farther end of the dam, +where it divided, to the right if one wished to go to the mill +yard, and across the dam if one wished to reach the house. From +any point of view the Old Stone Mill, with its dam and pond, its +surrounding woods and fields and orchard, made a picture of rare +loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of peace. At least, the +woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the willows fell, +found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested her; the +full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours forth +herself on a summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted her. +She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and straight she +stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with +features that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her black hair shot +with silver threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes +deep set, black and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that +shines only in eyes that have for generations peered into the gloom +of Highland glens. + +"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as +she gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to +part it." + +As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the +hum of the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin. + +"Oh, that weary fiddle!" she said with an impatient shake of her +head. But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into +tender pity. "Ah, well, well," she sighed, "poor man, it is the +kind heart he has, whateffer." + +She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large +living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room +that joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that +stood beside the door. "Mercy me!" she cried, "it's time my own +work was done. But I'll just step in and see--" She opened the +door leading to the mill and stood silent. A neat little man with +cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven, and with a mass of curly hair +tinged with grey hanging about his forehead, was seated upon a +chair tipped back against the wall, playing a violin with great +vigour and unmistakable delight. + +"The mill's a-workin', mother," he cried without stopping his +flying fingers, "and I'm keepin' my eye upon her." + +She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. "Ay, the mill is +workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking." + +"Of what then?" he cried cheerily, still playing. + +"It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you." + +"Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. "Sure you're +wrong. Listen to this. What is it now?" + +"Nonsense," cried the woman, "how do I know?" + +"But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into his Irish +brogue. "Don't you mind--" and on he played for a few minutes. +"Now you mind, don't you?" + +"Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?" she +cried, heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance. + +But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly +changing expression, took on a softer look. + +"Ah, there you are," cried the little man in triumph, "now I know +you remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, +darlin', since--" He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags +at his side and sprang toward her. + +"Go away with you." She closed the door quickly behind her. +"Whisht now! Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as +ever you were." + +"Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's +foolish enough I've been often since. And," he added with a sigh, +"it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll +do, perhaps, what I've not done." + +"Whisht now, lad," said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for +a great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. "What has come +to you to-day? Go away now to your work," she added in her former +tone, "there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll +watch the grist." + +"And why would you watch the grist, mother?" said a voice from the +mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was +his mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep- +set, sombre eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of +his body, of power in every move he made and of passion in every +glance. "Indeed, you will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the +grist and I'll slash down the hay in no time. And do you know, +mother," he continued in a tone of suppressed excitement, "have you +heard the big news?" His mother waited. "He's coming home to-day. +He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will bring him to the +raising." + +A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said +in a voice calm and steady, "Well, you'd better get that hay down. +It'll be late enough before it is in." + +"Listen to her, Barney," cried her husband scornfully. "And she'll +not be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by +one in the morning, and sure that's time enough." + +Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. +"We will have dinner early," he said, "and I'll just take a turn at +the hay." + +She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down +the scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and +handed it to his father. + +"Give it a turn or two," he said; "you're better than me at this." + +"Here then," replied his father, handing him the violin, "and +you're better at this." + +"They would not say so to-night, Dad," replied the lad as he took +the violin from his father's hands, looking it over reverently. In +a very few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for +work; and Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off up the +lane. + + + +II + +THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE + + +Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a +milk pail in her hand turned into the mill lane. As she stepped +from the glare and dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as +if Nature had been waiting to find in her the touch that makes +perfect; so truly, in all her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit +of that green shady lane with its sweet fragrance and its fresh +beauty. + +It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that +supple form into its firm lines of grace, and to tint those moulded +cheeks with the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the +thistle heads that nodded at her through the snake fence. It had +taken sixteen years of pure-hearted, joyous living to lend those +eyes, azure as the sky above, their brave, clear glance; sixteen +years of unsullied maidenhood to endow her with that divine +something of mystery which, with its shy reserve and fearless +trust, awakens reverence and rebukes impurity as with the vision of +God. + +Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in +the sun, revealed a face strong, brave and kind, with just a touch +of pride. The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head +and the carriage of her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted +in a smile over the straight rows of white teeth one forgot the +pride and thought only of the soft persuasive lips. + +As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of +clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, "Oh, this is good!" She +peeped through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red +clover. "What a bed!" she cried; "I believe I'll try it." Over +the fence she sprang, and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the +fragrant blossoms, she stretched herself at full length upon her +back. For some minutes she lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed +looking up through the spreading thorn tree branches to the blue +sky with its floating, fleecy clouds far overhead. The lazy drone +of the bees in the clover beside her, the languorous summer airs +swaying into gentle nodding the timothy stalks just above her head, +and all the soothing sounds of a summer morning, that many-voiced +choir that sings to the great God Nature's glad content that all is +so very good, rested and comforted the girl's heart and body, +making her know as she had not known before how very weary she had +been and how deep an ache her heart had held. + +"Oh, it's good!" she cried again, stretching her hands at full +length above her head. "I wish I could stay for one whole day, +just here in the clover with the bees and the birds and the trees +and the clouds and the blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidying +up." + +As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the +moment the load she had been carrying for many months. For a year +she had tried to fill in the minister's household her mother's +place. Without a day's warning the burden had been laid upon her +shoulders, but with the fine courage that youth and love combine to +give, denying herself even the poor luxury of indulgence of the +grief that had fallen upon her young heart, she had given herself, +without thought of anything heroic in her giving, to the caring for +the house and the household, and the comforting as best she could +of her father, suddenly bereft of her who had been to him not wife +alone, but comrade and counsellor as well. Without a thought, she +had at once surrendered all the bright plans that she, with her +mother, had cherished for the cultivation of her varied talents, +and had turned to the dull, monotonous routine of household duties +with never a thought but that she must do it. There was no one +else. + +"I believe I am tired," she said again aloud; then letting her +heart follow her eyes into and beyond the blue above her, she cried +softly, "O mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and +how much you did for me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear +little mother. Oh, if I had only known! Oh, we were all so +thoughtless!" She stretched up her hands again to the blue sky +with its fleecy clouds. "For your sake, mother dear," she +whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim with tears. +Not often since that day when they had carried her mother out from +the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging children, +and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself the +while. "I never saw HER cry," she said to herself, "not once, +except for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to +give up," and again the tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. +"Nonsense," she cried impatiently, sitting up straight, "don't be a +big, selfish baby. They're just the dearest little darlings in the +world, and I'll do my best for them." + +Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation. +She locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. "It is +a beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; +just over the fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this +is great!" Once more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight +in the clover and lay again supine, revelling in that riot of +caressing sounds and scents. + +"Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink--" + +She sprang up alert and listening. "That is old Charley, I +suppose, or Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe." She climbed +up the conveniently jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over +the field. + +"It's Barney," she said, shading her eyes with her hand; "I wonder +he does not cut his fingers." She sat herself down upon the top +rail and leaned against the stake. + +"My! what a sweep," she said in admiring tones as the young man +swayed to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, +swinging easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in +a cutting sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the +clattering machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the +mower's art with all its rhythmic grace. + +Those were days when men were famous according as they could "cut +off the heels of a rival mower." There are that grieve that, one +by one, from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts +of daily toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their +skill of hand and eye, their invincible endurance. But there still +offer in life's stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood +in ways less picturesque perhaps, but no less truly testing. + +Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry +of motion. + +"Doesn't he do it well!" said the girl, following with admiring +eyes every movement of his well-poised frame. "How big he is! +Why--" and her blue eyes widened with startled surprise, "he's +almost a man!" The tint of the thistle bloom deepened in her +cheek. She glanced down and made as if to spring to the ground; +then settling herself resolutely back against her fence stake, she +exclaimed, "Pshaw! I don't care. He is just a boy. Anyway, I'm +not going to mind Barney Boyle." + +On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to +the end. + +"Well done!" cried the girl. "You'll be cutting off Long John's +heels in a year or so." + +"A year or so! If I can't do it to-day I never can. But I don't +want to blow." + +"You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and +pitching and cradling, and what not." + +"They are, are they? Who is good enough to waste breath on me?" + +"Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just telling me the other +day." + +"Oh, pshaw! I ran away from their crowd, but that's nothing." + +"And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go +swinging along?" + +"Do I? That's the only time then." + +"Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you +learn the scythe?" + +"Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's +coming home to-day." He glanced at her face quickly as he said +this, but her face showed only a frank pleasure. + +"To-day? Good. Won't your mother be glad?" + +"Yes. And some other people, too," said Barney. + +"And who, particularly?" + +A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering +himself, "Well, I guess I will, myself, a little. This is the +first time he has ever been away. We never slept a night apart +from each other as long as I can mind till he went to college last +year. He used to put his arm just round me here," touching his +breast. "I'll tell you the first nights after he went I used to +feel for him in the dark and be sick to find the place empty." + +"Well," said the girl doubtfully, "I hope he won't be different. +College does make a difference, you know." + +"Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out +of him. But he won't be different. Not to us, nor," he added +shyly, "to you." + +"Oh, to me?" She laughed lightly. "He had better not try any airs +with me." + +"What would you do?" inquired Barney. "You couldn't take it out of +his hide." + +"Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down," she replied with a knowing +shake of her head. + +"Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time," replied Barney. "But +nothing can change Dick. And I am awful glad he's coming to-day, +in time for the raising, too." + +"The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And," +regretfully, "a big supper and a big spree afterwards in the new +barn." + +"Are not you going?" inquired Barney. + +"I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll +go. I don't think father would like me to go, and,"--a pause-- +"anyway, I don't think I can get away." + +"Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children +for once. You would like the raising. It's great fun." + +"Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get +so wild and yell so." + +"Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, +if you don't. And Dick is coming that way, too. Alec Murray is to +bring him on his way home from town." Again Barney glanced keenly +at her face, but he saw only puzzled uncertainty there. + +"Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I must go now." + +"Wait," cried Barney, "I'll go with you. We're having dinner early +to-day." He hung up the scythe in the thorn tree and threw the +stone at the foot. + +"I wish you would promise to come," he said earnestly. + +"Do you, really?" The blue eyes turned full upon him. + +"Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there." +The frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to disappoint the blue +eyes. Together in silence they set off down the lane. + +"Well," she said, resuming their conversation, "I don't think I can +go, but I'll see. You'll be playing for the dancing, I suppose?" + +"No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I +may spell him a little perhaps." + +"Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great at that, I know." + +"Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You +ought to see him! I'll make him do the Highland Fling." + +"Oh, Dick, Dick!" she cried impatiently, "everything is Dick with +you." + +Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, "Yes. I +guess you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next +to my mother, Dick is the finest in all the world." + +At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene +spread out before them. + +"There," said Barney, "if I live to be a hundred years, I can't +forget that," and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he +continued, "I tell you what, with the moon just over the pond there +making a track of light across the pond--" She glanced shyly at +him. The sombre eyes were looking far away. + +"I know," she said softly; "it must be lovely." + +Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical +cadence a call long and clear, "Who-o-o-hoo." + +"That's mother," said Barney, answering the call with a quick +shout. "You'll be in time for dinner." + +"Dinner!" she cried with a gasp. "I'll have to get my buttermilk +and other things and hurry home." And she ran at full speed down +the hill and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that +it was too hot to run. + +"How are you, Mrs. Boyle?" she panted. "I'm in an awful hurry. +I'm after father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know." + +Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face. + +"Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting +you run." + +"Letting me!" she laughed defiantly. "Indeed, he had all he could +do to keep up." + +"And that I had," said Barney, "and, mother, tell her she must come +to the raising." + +"And are you not going?" said the older woman. + +"I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me +to be at the dance." + +"Yes, yes, I know," quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, "but you might just +come with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will be +doing you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father +this afternoon." + +"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought." + +"Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house." + +Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log +milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool +over the gravelly floor. + +"What a lovely place," said Margaret, stepping along the foot +stones. + +"Ay, it's clean and sweet," said Mrs. Boyle. "And that is what you +most need with the milk and butter." + +She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the +girl's pail with buttermilk. + +"Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones." + +"Och, yes!" said Mrs. Boyle. "There's no recipe at all. It is +just this way--" And she elucidated the mysteries of sconemaking. + +"But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure," cried +Margaret, in despair. + +"Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your +dinner past, and we will call for you on our way." + +"Here, lassie," she cried, "your father will like this. It is only +churned th' day." She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen +cloth, laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small +basket. + +"Good-bye," said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. "You're +far too kind to me." + +"Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good +girl you are, and a brave one." + +"Not very brave, I fear," replied the girl, as she quickly turned +away and ran up the hill and out of sight. + +"Poor motherless lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with +loving eyes; "it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor +man, he can't see it. Well, well, she has the promise." + + + +III + +THE RAISING + + +The building of a bank-barn was a watershed in farm chronology. +Toward that event or from it the years took their flight. For many +summers the big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in +a long heap at the bottom of the lane on their way to their +ultimate destination, the foundation of the bank-barn. During the +winter, previous the "timber was got out." From the forest trees, +maple, beech or elm--for the pine was long since gone--the main +sills, the plates, the posts and cross-beams were squared and +hauled to the site of the new barn. Hither also the sand from the +pit at the big hill, and the stone from the heap at the bottom of +the lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite gone the +lighter lumber--flooring, scantling, sheeting and shingles--were +marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons +and framers appeared and began their work of organising from this +mass of material the structure that was to be at once the pride of +the farm and the symbol of its prosperity. + +From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the +acknowledged, but none the less critical, observation of the +immediate neighbourhood. For instance, it had been a matter of +free discussion whether "them timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't +too blamed heavy," and it was Jack McKenzie's openly expressed +opinion that "one of them 'purline plates' was so all-fired crooked +that it would do for both sides at onct." But the confidence of +the community in Jack Murray, framer, was sufficiently strong to +allay serious forebodings. And by the time the masons had set firm +and solid the many-coloured boulders in the foundation, the +community at large had begun to take interest in the undertaking. + +The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. +It had the distinction of being, in the words of Jack Murray, +framer, "the biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts." +Indeed, so magnificent were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who +stood just five feet in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a +man of considerable importance in his estimation, was overheard to +exclaim with an air of finality, "What! two twenty-foot floors and +two thirty-foot mows! It cawn't be did." Such was, therefore, the +magnitude of the undertaking, and such the far-famed hospitality of +the McLeods, that no man within the range of the family +acquaintance who was not sick, or away from home, or prevented by +some special act of Providence, failed to appear at the raising +that day. + +It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were +already there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. +The varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their +popularity. + +"Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle," said Mr. McLeod, who stood +at the gate receiving his guests. + +"Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," shouted Tom +Magee, a big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose +brogue twenty years of life in Canada had failed to impoverish. + +"We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day," replied the +miller, as with tender care he handed the green bag containing his +precious violin to his wife. + +"No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "The girls yonder +would hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the +fore. You'll find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, +Mrs. Boyle. The wife will be glad of your help to keep those wild +colts in order yonder, eh, Margaret, lassie?" + +"Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be +kept in order," replied Mrs. Boyle. + +"Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. +"A girl with an eye and a chin like that may break through any +time, and then woe betide you." + +"Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said Margaret, +springing lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle +toward the house, which was humming with that indescribable but +altogether bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of +girls overflowing with life can produce. + +"Come along, Charley," roared Magee. "We're waitin' to make ye the +boss." + +"All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. +"If you make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and +take hold of the gang. What do you say, men?" + +"Ay, that's it." "Tom it is." "Jump in, Tom," were the answering +shouts. + +"Aw now," said Tom, "there's better than me here. Take Big Angus +there. He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, +Rory Ross? It's the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put +the fire intil ye!" + +There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour +of Rory's hair and face. + +"Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said the fiery-headed, +fiery-hearted little Highlander. "When he's wanted, ye'll not find +him far away, I'se warrant ye." + +There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, +both famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing +forces at raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot +speech was relieved by Charley Boyle's ready wit. + +"We'll divide the work, boys," he said. "Some men do the liftin' +and others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'." + +A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a +worker was none too brilliant. + +"All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll have to take it. Git +togither an' quit yer blowin'." He cast an experienced eye over +the ground where the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the +uninitiated would seem wild confusion. + +"Them's the sills," he cried. "Where's the skids?" + +"Right under yer nose, Tom," said the framer quietly. + +"Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills. +Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk +her up! Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, +two av ye! Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!" +Angus was just six feet four. "Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her +along! Up she is! Steady! Cant her over! How's that, framer? +More to the east, is it? Climb up on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer +claws! Now thin, east wid her! Togither-r-r--heave! Aw now, +where are ye goin'? Don't be too rambunctious! Ye'll be afther +knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back a little now! Whoa! +How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence? All right. Now +thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin' down to +pick the winners, an a small chance there'll be fer some of yez." + +And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, +the sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced. + +"Now thin, min fer the bints!" + +The "bents" were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which, +fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the +barn. Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on +the barn floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one +being firmly joined to the one previously erected. + +"Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!" admonished Tom. "We don't +want no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction +a little later on!" + +In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five +before the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into +their places, but not without some few hitches, each of which was +the occasion for an outburst of exhortations on the part of the +boss, more or less sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies +interfered very considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He +worked his men like galley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. +But for the most part they took it all with good humour, though +some few who had the misfortune to fall specially under his tongue +began to show signs that the lash had bitten into the raw. The +timbers of the last bent were specially heavy, and the men, more or +less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring to their work +with the alacrity that Tom deemed suitable. + +"At it, min!" he roared. "Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it +was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now thin! +Togither-r-r--heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch +that time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what +in the blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av +bees on a cowld day! Shift over there, will ye!" + +In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same +moment, leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to +sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent +swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the +men sprang back from under the huge bent. It was a moment of +supreme peril. + +"Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!" howled Tom, "or the hull +of ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes." + +At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw +themselves upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by +others, and the calamity was averted. + +"Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!" cried Tom. But there +was a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men +stand in the presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. +The bent was walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom +sprang down from the building, his face white, his voice shaking. +"Give me yer hand, Barney Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all +the saints an' the Blessid Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!" + +Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping +them on the back with varied exclamations. "You're the lads!" +"Good boys!" "You're the stuff!" "Put it there!" + +"What are ye doin' to us?" cried Rory at last; "I didn't see +anything happen. Did you, Barney?" + +"We did, though," answered the crowd. + +For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd +chewing hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his +nerve. He had seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe +from which the men had been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again +relieved the strain. + +"Did any of you hear the cowbell?" he said. "It strikes me it's +not quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?" + +"Rory and Tom for captains!" cried a voice. + +"Not me, by the powers!" said Tom. + +"Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men." + +"All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the +same place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of +blood an' brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. +Take Barney there. He's the man, I kin tell ye." + +This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy. + +"Barney it is!" "Rory and Barney!" they yelled. + +"Me!" cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. "I have +never done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising all my +life." + +There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had +Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and quickness. + +"Carry pins, is it?" said Tom. "Ye can carry yer head level, me +boy. So at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will." + +"Well then," cried Barney, "I will, if you give me first choice, +and I'll take Tom here." + +"Hooray!" yelled Tom, "I'm wid ye." So it was agreed, and in a few +minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory +as last choice. + +"We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. +"We don't want to hog on ye too much." + +"Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted +to his place among Rory's men. "You'll earn your supper to-day +with the best of them." + +"If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!" cried Ben, to the +huge delight of the crowd. + +And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out +there was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should +complete each its part of the structure first. The main plates, +the "purline" plates, posts and braces, the rafters and collar +beams, must all be set securely in position. The side whose last +man was first down from the building after its work was done +claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a hundred men stood, +hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off to "ride" the +plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were, quick of +eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men to be +depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The +choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, side. + +"Niver fret, Barney," cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of +battle was his own man again. "Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, +an' the more air for us the better." + +Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word. + +"Aren't they splendid!" said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, +her cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. "Oh, if +I were only a boy!" + +"Ay," said Mrs. Boyle, "ye'd be riding the plate, I doubt." + +"Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!" answered the girl, with +her eyes upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young +captain, whose rugged face showed pale even at that distance. + +"Now then, men," cried the framer. "Mind your pins. Are you +ready?" holding his hat high in the air. + +"Ready," answered Rory. + +Barney nodded. + +"Git then!" he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like +hounds after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the +tape, they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling +like men possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into +rival camps, wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan. + +"Well done, Rory! He's up first!" cried a girl whose brilliant +complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her +relationship to the captain of the north side. + +"Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see," cried Margaret. "Oh, +Barney, hurry! hurry!" + +"Indeed, he will need to hurry," cried Rory's sister, mercilessly +exultant. "He's up! He's up!" + +Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the +bent, had just "broken it down," and in half a minute, seized by +the men detailed for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. +Like cats, three men with mauls were upon it driving the pins home +just as the second half was making its appearance over the bent, to +be seized and placed and pinned as its mate had been. + +"He's won! He's won!" shrieked Rory's admiring faction. + +"Barney! Barney!" screamed his contingent reproachfully. + +"Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!" + +"Beaten, indeed!" was the scornful reply. "Just wait a minute." + +"They're at the 'purlines'!" shrieked Rory's sister, and her +friends, proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of +expressing emotion under such circumstances. + +"My!" sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering +unutterable pangs of humiliation. "Some people don't mind making a +show of themselves." + +"Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?" cried Margaret, to whose eager +spirit Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully +slow. + +But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he +had been carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and +while part of his men had been getting the plates to their places, +others had been making ready the "purlines" and laying the rafters +in order so that, although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of +the struggle, when once his plates were in position, while Rory's +men were rushing about in more or less confusion after their +rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters moved to their positions as +if by magic. Consequently, though when they arrived at the rafters +Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his rafters were lifted +almost as one into their places. + +At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had +been enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating +defeat, rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss +inexpressible, save by a series of ear-piercing but altogether +rapturous shrieks. + +"They're down! They're down!" screamed Margaret, dancing in an +ecstasy of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at +braces, slipping, sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept +dropping from incredible distances to the ground. Suddenly through +all the tumultuous shouts of victory a heart-rending scream rang +out, followed by a shuddering groan and dead silence. One-half of +Rory's purlin plate slipped from its splicing, the pin having been +neglected in the furious haste, and swinging free, fell crashing +through the timbers upon the scurrying, scrambling men below. On +its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who was madly entreating +a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by good fortune +against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path of +destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking +at last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little +Ben Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a +moment two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning +and screaming and carried to an open grassy spot. After some +moments of confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and +hurry after his horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a +mattress and pillow placed thereon, to which Ben, still groaning +piteously, was tenderly lifted. + +"I'll go wid ye," said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and hat. + +Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled +himself together. "Stop a bit, Barney," he said. He beckoned Rory +to his side. "Tell them," he said between his gasps, "not to spoil +their supper for me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps I +hearned it." + +"And that you did, lad," cried Rory. "No man better, and I'll tell +them." + +The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke +out into admiring expletives, "Good boy, Benny!" "Benny's the +stuff!" till finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, +"Three cheers for Benny!" and the feelings of the crowd, held in +check for so many minutes, at length found expression in three +times three, and with the cheers ringing in his ears and with a +smile upon his drawn face, poor Ben, forgetting his agony for the +time, was borne away on his three-mile drive to the doctor. + +The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won. + + + +IV + +THE DANCE + + +The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' +gate. They were met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, with a +group of girls and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they +drove into the yard they were met at once with eager questions as +to the condition and fate of the unhappy Ben. + +"Ben, is it?" said Tom. "Indeed, it's a hero we've discovered. He +stud it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there are two av thim," +he said, jerking his thumb toward Barney. "Ye ought to have seen +him stand there houldin' the light an' passin' the doctor sthrings, +an' the blood spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, +it's mesilf can't tell ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by +mesilf on the floor on the broad av me back, an' naither av thim +takin' annythin' to do wid me except to drown me wid watther betune +times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the born doctor, an' so he is," +continued Tom, warming to his theme, "for wid his hands red wid +blood an' his face as white as yer apron, ma'am, niver a shiver did +he give until the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was sewed. +Bedad! there's not a man in the county could do the same." + +There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts +Barney finally gave it up, and began unhitching his horse. Meantime +the sound of the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the +silence there rose a voice in song to the accompaniment of some +stringed instrument. It was an arresting voice. The group about +the horse stood perfectly still as the voice rose and soared and +sank and rose again in an old familiar plantation air. + +"Who in thunder is that?" cried Barney, turning to his mother. + +But his mother shook her head. "Indeed, I know not, but it's +likely yon strange girl that came out from town with the Murrays." + +"I know," cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss of +her head, "Alec told me. She is the girl who has come to take the +teacher's place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. +Her father was a colonel in the Southern army, California or +Virginia or some place, I don't just remember. Oh! I know all +about her, Alec told me," continued Teenie with a knowing shake of +her ruddy curls. "And she'll have a string of hearts dangling to +her apron, if she wears one, before the month is out, so you'd +better mind out, Barney." + +But Barney was not heeding her. "Hush!" he said, holding up his +hand, for again the voice was rising up clear and full into the +night silence. Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved +till the verse was finished. + +"She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney," continued Teenie +wickedly. "You'll just need to take her with you to the Mill." + +"Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house," said +the mother, speaking sharply. + +"She has no mother," said Margaret softly, "and she will need a +place." + +"Yes, that she will," replied Mrs. Boyle, "and I know very well +where she will be going, too, and you with four little ones to do +for, not to speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot." Mrs. +Boyle was evidently seriously angered. + +"Man! What a voice!" breathed Barney, and, making fast the horse +to the waggon, he set off for the barn apparently oblivious of all +about him. + +"Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows +what's in that lad. But he'll stir the world yit, an' so he will. +An' that's what the ould Doctor said, so it was." + +When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just +finished her song, and with her guitar still in her hands was idly +strumming its strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so +bright as to reveal the ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous +depths of her dark eyes. It was a face of rare and romantic beauty +framed in soft, fluffy, dark hair, brushed high off the forehead +and gathered in a Greek knot at the back of her head. But besides +the beauty of face and eyes, there was an air of gentle, appealing +innocence that awakened the chivalrous instincts latent in every +masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace that set her in +striking contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids so perfectly +able to care for themselves, asking odds of no man. When the +singing ceased Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side, +and, reaching for the violin, said, "Let me spell you a bit, Dad." + +At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, +turned quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for him, shouting, +"Hello! you old whale, you!" The father hastily pulled his +precious violin out of danger. + +"Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!" said Barney, struggling in his +brother's embrace; "stop it, now!" + +With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard +with an embarrassed, half-shamed, half-indignant laugh. The crowd +gathered near in delighted expectation. There was always something +sure to happen when Dick "got after" his older brother. + +"He won't let me kiss him," cried Dick pitifully, to the huge +enjoyment of the crowd. + +"It's too bad, Dick," they cried. + +"So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!" +replied Dick, in a hurt tone. "And me just home, too." + +"It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a minute," cried his +sympathisers. + +"I won't either," cried Dick, preparing to make an attack. + +"Look here, Dick," cried Barney impatiently, "just quit your +nonsense or I'll throw you on the floor there and sit on you. +Besides, you're spoiling the music." + +"Well, well, that's so," said Dick. "So on Miss Lane's account +I'll forbear, provided, that is, she sings again, as, of course, +she will." + +It was Dick's custom to assume command in every company where he +found himself. + +"What is it to be? 'Dixie'?" + +"Yes! Yes!" cried the crowd. "'Dixie.' We'll give you the +chorus." + +After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off +into that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. +Barney picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly +till he found her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment +of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful +face lighting up as if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred +spirit, and with a new richness and tenderness she poured forth the +full flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with delight. +Even those who had been somewhat impatient for the renewal of the +dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to Dick, who +had resumed his place beside her. "Who is the man you wanted so +badly to kiss?" she asked quietly. + +"Who?" he cried, so that everyone heard. "What! don't you know? +That's Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, +drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from +Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond +the Dixie line." + +Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and +awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from +the block where she had been sitting. + +"You accompany beautifully," she said in her soft Southern drawl; +"it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany +like that." + +"Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager to get back again +to his shadow, "but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you +sing again." + +"Certainly," cried Dick, "she'll sing again. What will you give us +now, white or black?" + +"Plantation, of course," said Barney brusquely. + +"All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?" cried Dick. + +The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. "Do they all +obey you here?" + +"Ask them." + +"That's what," cried Alec Murray, "especially the girls." + +She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then +turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been +asked for, "You, too, obey, I see," she said. + +"Generally--, always when I like," he replied, continuing to play. + +"Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose I must then." And +she began: + + + "The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home." + + +Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with +its dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, +the voice soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes +of a 'cello, supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held +them breathless. No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the +subtle telepathic waves came back from her audience to the girl, +and with ever-deepening passion and abandon she poured forth into +the moonlit silence the full throbbing tide of song. The old air, +simple and time-worn, took on a new richness of tone colour and a +fulness of volume suggestive of springs of unutterable depths. +Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the spell. As +before, silence followed the song. + +"But you did not do your part," she said, smiling up at him with a +very pretty air of embarrassment. + +"No," said Dick solemnly, "we didn't dare." + +"Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and +hoarse, and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, +"Music, when it's good, makes him quite batty." + +But Iola ignored him. "Did you ever hear this?" she said to +Barney. She strummed a few chords on her guitar. "It's only a +little baby song, one my old mammy used to sing." + + + "Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', + Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. + Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', + So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass. + + CHORUS: + + "Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. + Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho! + De angels want you, guess I know, + But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so. + + "Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, + Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, + De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, + Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah. + + "Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? + Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? + But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' + An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'." + + +A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down +and sat quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played +the refrain over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, +its tender appeal to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all +human hearts, reached the deep places in the honest hearts of her +listeners and for some moments they stood silent about her. It was +with an obvious effort that Dick released the tension by crying +out, "Partners for four-hand reel." Instantly the company resolved +itself into groups of four and stood waiting for the music. + +"Strike up, Barney," cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, +whom he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin +to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and +Margaret were standing. The boy's face was pale through its +swarthy tan. + +"Come away," he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice. + +"Isn't she beautiful?" cried Margaret impulsively. + +"Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!" + +"Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt," said Mrs. Boyle grimly, +with a sharp glance at her son. + +But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved +away as in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, +for soon the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken +from his dream mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick +chattering gaily to Margaret and his mother of his College +experiences, but except for an occasional word with his father he +sat in silence, gazing not upon the fields and woods that lay in +all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that new world, vast, +unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon lay beyond the line of +vision, the world of his imagination, where he must henceforth live +and where his work must lie. For the events of the afternoon had +summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but real and +terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse +the change that had come to him, nor could he account for it. He +did not try to. He lived again those great moments when, having +been thrust by chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, +he had swung them to victory. He remembered the ease, the perfect +harmony with which his faculties had wrought through those few +minutes of fierce struggle. Again he passed through the awful +ordeal of the operation, now holding the light, now assisting with +forceps or cord or needle, now sponging away that ghastly red flow +that could not be stemmed. He wondered now at his self-mastery. +He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, handing the +old doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his surprise and +pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the floor unable +to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of anything +like elation at the doctor's words, "My boy, you have the nerve and +the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you +to be." + +But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the +interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly +limned before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the +crowding, eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and +Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre +foreground, the upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic +loveliness, all in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over +all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. +That was the final magic touch that rolled back the screen and set +before him the new world which must henceforth be his. He could +not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn +threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was certainly not +the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her +personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a +subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence +there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached +from the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the +stream of heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a +vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in him made +eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it came upon +him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done +forever. He felt himself already detached from it. The new self +looking out upon its new world had shaken off his boyhood as the +bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring. + +As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell +upon his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that +while his brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, +that stage had immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other +figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and influential. His +brother, who with his mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his +mother, had absorbed his boyish devotion, must henceforth share +that devotion with others. Upon this thought his brother's voice +broke in. + +"What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?" + +The kindly tone stabbed like a knife. + +"No, no. Nothing, Dick." + +"Yes, but there is. You're not the same." At the anxious appeal +in the voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his +brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled +sense of change that he could not analyse to himself, much less +explain to his brother. + +"I don't know, Dick--I can't tell you--I don't think I am the +same." A look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, +handsome face turned toward him. + +"Have I done anything, Barney?" said the younger boy, his dismay +showing in his tone. + +"No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you." He put his +hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace +he ever allowed himself. "It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I +am the same." His speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: +"And whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never +change to you--remember that, Dick, to you I shall never change." +His breath was coming in quick gasps. The younger boy gazed at his +usually so undemonstrative brother. Suddenly he threw his arms +about his neck, crying in a broken voice, "You won't, Barney, I +know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to live." + +For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his +shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, "Well, I +am a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter +with me, I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since +noon. But all the same, Dick," he added in a steady, matter-of- +fact tone, "we must expect many changes from this out, but we'll +stand by each other till the world cracks." + +After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother +sat together talking over the doings of the day after their +invariable custom. + +"He is looking thin, I am thinking," said the mother. + +"Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few +meals out of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever." + +"That was a fine work of yours with the doctor." The indifferent +tone did not deceive her son for a moment. + +"Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. +There were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed +up, and I just did what I could." The mother nodded slightly. + +"You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be +doing something better than lying on his back on the floor like a +baby." + +"He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. +But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, +and never a slip or a stop." He paused abruptly and stood upright +looking far away for some moments. "Yes, fine! Splendid!" he +continued as in a dream. "And he said I had the fingers and the +nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I see now--mother, I'm going to +be a doctor." + +His mother stood and faced him. "A doctor? You?" + +The sharp tone recalled her son. + +"Yes, me. Why not?" + +"And Richard?" + +Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning +long ago when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his +as they set forth to school for the first time, said, "Take care of +your brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge." That very +day and many a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought +for him, had pulled him out of scraps into which the younger lad's +fiery temper and reckless spirit were frequently plunging him, but +never once had he consciously failed in the trust imposed on him. +And as Dick developed exceptional brilliance in his school work, +together they planned for him, the mother and the older brother, +the mother painfully making and saving, the brother accepting as +his part the life of plodding obscurity in order that the younger +boy might have his full chance of what school and college could do +for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the mother had +fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's lips +the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was +demanding, she had drawn into this partnership her elder son. And +thus to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, +amounting to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should +cherish for himself an ambition whose realisation might imperil his +brother's future. Barney needed, therefore, no explanation of his +mother's cry of dismay, almost of horror. He was quick with his +answer. + +"Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course +nothing must stop Dick. I can wait--but I am going to be a +doctor." + +The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in +its firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly, "Ay, I doubt you +will." Then she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious +tone, "And what for should you not?" + +"Thank you, mother," said her son humbly, "and never fear we'll +stand by Dick." + +Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she +stood watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a +great sigh, she said aloud: "Ay, it is the grand doctor he will +make. He has the nerve and the fingers whatever." Then after a +pause she added: "And he will not fail the laddie, I warrant." + + + +V + +THE NEW TEACHER + + +The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. +Her beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep- +chested, sturdy womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child +was sensible of the fascination of her smile, which seemed to +emanate from every feature of her face, so much so that little Ruby +Ross was heard to say: "And do you know, mother, she smiles with +her nose!" The almost timid appeal in her gentle manner stirred +the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of her appealing +gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud command due to +the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling race. +But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back +upon sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly +effective, based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public +opinion, and hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and +rendered as if in the presence of the great if somewhat vague +public which at times she individualized, as she became familiar +with her pupils, in the person of father or mother or trustee, as +the case might be. And with marvellous skill she played this +string, albeit occasionally she struck a false note. + +"What would your father think, Lincoln?" she inquired reproachfully +of little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down Easterner, +by name Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, "Maine +Jabe," for his fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. +"What would your father think if he saw you act so rudely?" + +"Dad wouldn't care a dang." + +Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover. + +"Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?" + +Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal +appeal. He hung his head in blushing silence. + +"Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever +gentleman if you tried hard." A new idea lodged itself under +Link's red thatch of hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd +little soul. Here was one visibly present whose good opinion he +valued. At all costs that good opinion he must win. + +The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition +purposes. The day would surely come when before the eyes of the +public they would parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved +them to be ready. + +But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. +This principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature +of the reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful +work invariably closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and +musical exercise. To recite before the teacher and to hear the +teacher recite was worth considerable effort. To sing with the +teacher was a joy, but to hear the teacher sing to the accompaniment +of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. It was not only an hour of +pleasure to the pupils, but an hour of training as well. She +initiated them into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, +phrasing, and expression, and such was their absorbing interest in +and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks truly remarkable +results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably concluded with +a plantation song from the teacher; and with her memory-gates wide +open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all her soul in +her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, +laughterful, or tear-choked, according to her mood and song. + +It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road +on his way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered +incapable of movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement +he burst forth to old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee +Board, who happened to be in the store: + +"Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! +I couldn't git my team to move past that there door!" + +"What's matter, Mr. Young?" + +"Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know +there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession +blockin' that there road in front of the school!" + +"Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?" inquired old +Hector, in anxious surprise. + +"Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one +'time to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to +be the dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to +cinders! she ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than +my old Tom cat's like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's +bosom!" + +"That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind +paying a little extra school rate now," said Hector, with a shrewd +twinkle in his eye. + +"Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time +to the trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear +that song again!" + +In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher +introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all +else failed. The school was made corporately and jointly +responsible for the individual. The offence of one was the offence +of all, the merit of one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was +associated with her in the business of securing good lessons and +exemplary conduct. As the day went on each misdemeanour was +gravely, and in full view of the school, marked down upon the +blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like manner +recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour of +song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good +conduct, persisted in robbing the school of its hour of delight. +In the case of Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took +Dugald Robertson, the minister's son, just half an hour's hard +fighting to extract a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the +main a thoughtful, peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the +entrance class, and a great mathematician. At first he was +inclined to despise the teacher, setting little store by her +beautiful face and fascinating smile, for on the very first day he +discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her +despair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's propositions her +fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she threw herself +frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings together +they, with Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the bewildering +intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession of +helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made +irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little Highland +gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in +him. + +But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if +atonement there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of +her endowments in those branches of learning in which imagination +and artistic sensibility play any large part. And a far larger +part, and far more important, do these Divine gifts play than many +wise educationists conceive. The lessons in history, in geography, +and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks and became instinct +with life. The whole school would stay its ordinary work to listen +while the teacher told tales of the brave days of old to the +history class, or transformed the geography lessons into excursions +among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. But it was +in the reading lessons that her artistic talents had full play. +The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents in +the way of expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week +of drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would +arrest the class with the question, "What is the author seeing?" +and with the further question, "How does he try to show it to us?" +Reading, to her, consisted in the ability to see what the author +saw and the art of telling it, and to set forth with grace that +thing in the author's words. + +In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every +blot might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils +alike. "Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!" she +would cry, rubbing out with infinite care and pains the blot, and +rubbing in the horror of such a defilement being paraded before the +eyes of the vague but terrible "they." + +Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, +neither wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. +As a consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came +around both teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar +with the path and so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking +public that they faced the ordeal without dread, prepared to give +forth whatever of knowledge or accomplishment they might possess. + +A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of +fall wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents +and friends of the children. The minister and the trustees were +dutifully present. Of the mill people Dick and his mother +appeared, Dick because his mother insisted that a student should +show interest in the school, his mother because Dick refused to go +a step without her. Barney came later, not because of his interest +in the school, but chiefly, he declared to himself, conscious of +the need of a reason, because there was nothing much else to do. +The presence of "Maine" Jabe might be taken as the high water mark +of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new teacher +and her methods. + +The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly +flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the +entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. +The arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and +sale of the various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly +passed over. The algebra class was equally successful. In the +Euclid class it seemed as if the hitherto unbroken success would +come to an unhappy end in the bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe +Ross, from whom the minister had asked a demonstration of the pons +asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's bewilderment clearly lay +with the minister himself, for in placing the figure upon the board +with the letters designating the isosceles triangle he made the +fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right hand side of the +base instead of at its proper place at the left, as in the book. +The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring the figure upon +the board and depending entirely upon her memory, soon plunged both +the minister and herself into confusion hopeless and complete. But +the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, and, +going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as +she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, "Wait, Phoebe. You are +quite confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin +all over." She placed the figure upon the board with the +designating letters arranged as in the book. "Now, take your +time," she said with deliberate emphasis. "Let A, B, C be an +isosceles triangle." And thus, with her feet set firmly upon the +familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of +angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and dexterity that +elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the minister, +good man, included. Upon Barney, however, who understood perfectly +what had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleasant +impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical +exercises as a whole awakened within him a feeling of pain which he +could not explain. + +When the reading classes were under review the school passed from +the atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had +such reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The +familiar sing-song monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in +its place a real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or +enacted. It was all simple, natural, and effective. + +The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and +singing which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the +teacher had full scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread +in the performers. By some marvellous power she caught hold and +absorbed their attention so that for her chiefly, if not entirely, +they recited or sang. In the singing, which terminated the +proceedings, the triumph of the day was complete. A single hymn, +two or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto unheard in that +community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at the last, "for the +children and the mothers," the teacher said, one soft lullaby in +which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, +vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their +lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic +values that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the +ordinary way. The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as +minister, trustees, parents, and all crowded about her, offering +congratulations. Her air of shy grace with just a touch of +nonchalant reserve served in no small degree to heighten the whole +effect of the day. + +The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret. + +"Isn't she a wonder?" cried Dick. "What has she done to those +little blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!" + +"Yes, yes," replied the minister, "it is quite surprising, indeed." + +"In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there +for a while," continued Dick. + +"Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered +herself cleverly." + +"Yes, indeed," said Dick, with a slight laugh. "That was a clever +bit of work on the part of the teacher." + +"Oh, shut up, Dick!" said Barney sharply. + +"Oh, well," replied Dick, "no one expects mathematics from a girl, +anyway." + +"Do you hear the conceit of him?" said his mother indignantly, "and +Margaret there can show all of you the way." + +"Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But +whatever you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little +Link Young was quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the +first time in his life is quite reckless in regard to the school +rates." + +"We will just wait a year," said his mother. "It is a new broom +that sweeps clean." + +"Now, mother, you are too hard to please." + +"Perhaps," she replied, grimly closing her lips. + +As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently been +pondering Dick's words, said, "Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a +delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. +And after all it is a great matter that the children should be +taught to read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor +thing would seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret +will need to take Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he +goes up to the entrance." At which remark the painful feeling +which the reciting and singing had caused Barney to forget for the +time, returned with even greater poignancy. + +But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was +that, at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For +once, the trustees realised that no longer would they depend for +popularity upon the sole qualification of their ability to keep +down the school rate. It was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic +moment they chose for the securing of the teacher's services for +another year. It might be that they were moved to immediate action +by the apparent willingness on her part to leave the matter of re- +engagement an open question. On all hands, however, they were +applauded as having done a good stroke of business when, there and +then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, although at a +higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid in the +section before. + + + +VI + +THE YOUNG DOCTOR + + +Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a +square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge +and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock +of character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at +which he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and +press it. He would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first +step was to consult the only authority available, old Doctor +Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a +craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and a chin and all they +suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as +if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The doctor +flung difficulties at his head for half an hour and ended by +offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused +it. + +"What do I want with money?" cried the doctor. He had lost his +only son three years before. "There's only my wife. And she'll +have plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, +that's all! Had my boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a +surgeon. But--" Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, +trumpeting hard with his nose. "Confound these foggy nights! I'll +put you through." + +"I'll pay my way," said Barney almost sullenly, or I'll stay at +home." + +"What are you doing here, then?" he roared at the boy. + +"I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?" + +"No," shouted the doctor again; "he can be a confounded fool and +work up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the +examinations till the last year, when he must attend college." + +"I could do that," said Barney, closing his jaws. + +The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever +like a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. "You can, eh? +Hanged if I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if +you would let me." The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was +touched. + +"Oh, you can!" he cried impulsively, "and I'll be awfully thankful. +You can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, +if you have time." His face went suddenly crimson. He was +conscious of asking a favour. + +The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the +first time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the +course of study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When +he had done he waved his hand toward his library. + +"Now, there are my books," he cried; "use them and ask me what you +will. It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, +by God's help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've +got the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing +worth while. The physician can't see further below the skin than +anyone else. He guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one +drug then another, guessing and experimenting all along the line. +But the knife, boy!" Here the doctor rose and began to pace the +floor. "There's no guess in the knife point! The knife lays bare +the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at that boy Kane, died three +weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the physician. Treated his +symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the postmortem"--here +the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice almost to a +whisper while he bent over the boy--"at the post-mortem the knife +discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery was +made too late." These were the days before appendicitis became +fashionable. "Now, listen to me," continued the doctor, even more +impressively, "I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper +moment might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch +or two long, the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and +in a couple of weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give +my life to be a great surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. +Look at these," and he held up a coarse, heavy hand; "I haven't the +touch. And besides, He brought me my wife, the best thing I've got +in the world, and my baby, which settled the surgeon business +forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the nerve--plenty of men +have that--but you've also got the fingers, which few men have. +With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical +ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great +surgeon! But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, +sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push +everything else aside!" he cried, waving his great hands. "And +remember!"--here his voice took a solemn tone--"let nothing share +your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone. A woman has no +business in science. She distracts the mind, disturbs the liver, +absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. For +you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till you are a +surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time at +your command." At these words the boy's face, which had caught the +light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell. + +"Well, what now?" cried the doctor, reading his face like a book. + +"I have no right to take your books or your time." + +The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and +faced him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood +steadfastly regarding each other, then the doctor's old face +relaxed, his eyes softened. He put his big hand on the boy's +shoulder. + +"Now, by the Lord that made you and me!" he said, "we were meant +for a team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you +pay." The boy's face brightened. + +"How?" he cried eagerly. + +"We'll change work." The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. "I +want fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled." + +"I'll do it!" cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded +his face. At last he saw his path. + +"Here," said the doctor, taking down a book, "here's your Gray." +And turning the leaves, "Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read +this. And here's the treatment," pulling down another book and +turning to a page, "Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. +There's no money in it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He only +needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. By and +by we'll get him a leg. Here's that Buffalo doctor's catalogue. +Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go +for your first examination next spring." + +"Next spring!" cried Barney, aghast, "not for three years." + +"Three years!" snorted the doctor, "three fiddlesticks! You can do +this first examination by next spring." + +"Yes. I could do it," said Barney slowly. + +The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's +face. + +"But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college." + +"Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?" + +The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, +filling in its cracks and canyons. + +"Because--well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's +awful clever." Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. +"Mother wants him to be a minister, and," he added after a pause, +"I do, too." + +The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a +few minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's +shoulders. "I understand, boy," he said, his great voice vibrating +in deep and tender tones, "I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a +minister if you want, but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife." + +The boy went home to his mother in high exultation. + +"The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him," he announced. "He +is going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is +cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But +how he is to get good cheer in that house, and how he is to get +good food, are more than I can tell." + +"Good cheer!" cried Dick. "He'll not lack for company. How many +has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?" + +"There are thirteen of them already, poor thing." + +"Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she +won't allow the figure to remain at that." + +"Indeed, I am thinking it will not," said his mother, speaking with +the confidence of intimate knowledge. + +"Well," replied Dick, with a judicial air, "it's a question whether +it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or +to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already +overburdened olive tree." + +"Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all." + +"Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the +prolific Mrs. Fallows!" + +"Whisht, laddie!" said his mother, in a shocked tone, "don't talk +foolishly." + +"But you said four, mother." + +"Twins the last twice," interjected Barney. + +"Great snakes!" cried Dick, "let us hope she won't get the habit." + +"But, mother," inquired Barney seriously, "what's to be done?" + +"Indeed, I can't tell," said his mother. + +"Listen to me," cried Dick, "I've got an inspiration. I'll +undertake the 'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into +this worthy service. Light conversation and song. And you can put +up the food, mother, can't you?" + +"We will see," said the mother quietly; "we will do our best." + +"In that case the 'food department' is secure," said Dick; "already +I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence." + +It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all +three departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded +in making Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash +the walls in Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and +emphasizing the danger of microbes, the dread of which was just +beginning to obtain in popular imagination. + +"Microbes? What's them?" inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously. + +"Very small insects." + +"Insects? Is it bugs you mean?" Mrs. Fallows at once became +fiercely hostile. "I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no +bugs in this 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's +bugs. John sez to me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, +Hianthy?' But I sez to 'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I +hain't been brought up with bugs, an' bugs I cawn't an' won't +'ave.'" + +It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of +microbes was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping +and, indeed, that these mysterious creatures were to be found in +the very highest circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. +With equal skill he inaugurated his "good food" department, +soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with the diplomatic +information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain articles +of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results. + +Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that +furnished by the "good cheer" department. This was left entirely +in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the +enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his +mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could +persuade Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret +had other duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more +particularly with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. +Fallows' somewhat unappetising though entirely substantial meals +with delicacies more suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, +insisted that with all that Iola and himself in the "good cheer" +department and Barney in what he called the "scavenging" department +could achieve, there was still need of Margaret's presence and +Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest time came upon +them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and, relieving +her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, with +whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows +household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them. + +Altogether the "young doctor," as Ben called him, had reason to be +proud of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The +amputation healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, +and in a few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was +never weary in his praises of the "young doctor." It was the +"young doctor" who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the +intolerable pain which followed the first dressing. It was the +"young doctor" who had changed the splints, shaping them cunningly +to fit the limb, bringing ease where there had been chafing pain. + +"Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want," was Ben's final +conclusion, "but fer me, the young doctor, sez I." + + + +VII + +THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT + + +The "good cheer" department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, +wrought profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it +no one but himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent +frankness, kept the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, +absorbed in his new work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new +ambitions, the "good cheer" department was chiefly valued as an +important factor in Ben's progress. To Iola it brought what to her +was the breath of life, admiration, gratitude, affection. But +Margaret perhaps more than any, not even excepting Ben himself, +gathered from this department what might be called its by-products. +The daily monotony of her household duties bore hard upon her young +heart. Ambitions long cherished, though cheerfully laid aside at +the sudden call of duty, could not be quite abandoned without a +sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the work of the +department in the monotony of her life, the companionship of its +members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her +keen sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but +irresistibly cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the +extra effort which her membership in the department rendered +necessary. + +It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick +with Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at +the Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some +weeks, as she was about to depart to town for her holidays. + +"I have come to say good-bye," she announced as she shook hands +with Mrs. Fallows. + +"Good-bye, dear 'eart," said that lady, throwing up her hands +aghast; "art goin' to leave us fer good?" + +"No, nothing so bad," said Dick; "only for a few weeks, Mrs. +Fallows. The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees +have decided that they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had +put a string on her." + +"Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' +to leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared +to me as 'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more." + +"I don't wonder," said Dick. "Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged +her, as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in +the section.'" + +"Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, +if I may." + +"An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!" said Mrs. Fallows, picking up +a twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the +inner room. "Ther' now," she continued to Margaret, who was moving +about putting things to rights, "don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I +know things is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things piles +up terr'ble, an' I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to +straighten 'em up. Jest look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, +'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 'em children 'bout my feet. +An', bless their 'earts! it's all I kin do to put the bread in +their mouths an keep the rags on their backs.' But John sez to me, +sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the rags. Keep 'em full,' +sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,' sez 'e. That's 'is +way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' cleverlike, is John. +Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!" she continued in an +awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from +the next room. "An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! +it's a sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' +a-mutilatin' of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me +som'at more'n my share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear +'eart; Benny fergits 'is hamputation an' 'is splits." + +"His splints," cried Margaret; "are they all right now?" + +"Yes. Since the young doctor--that's w'at Benny calls 'im--change +'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the +young doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see," continued Mrs. Fallows +confidentially, and again lowering her voice impressively, "yeh +see, 'is leg 'urt most orful at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's +in me toes, mother, it's in me toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, +'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' 'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, +'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes right up an' 'erd w'at +Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right enough. 'Is toes'll +'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e tells as 'ow +'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! an' 'ow +'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. +Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say," and here Mrs. +Fallows' voice dropped quite to a whisper, "as 'ow that keeps 'em +sore all the longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes +the doctor 'isself, an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' +the pain in 'is toes. 'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor +surprised-like. 'Tain't yer toes, Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as +is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite sharp, 'an' it's in me toes +the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. 'E's a terr'ble man fer +hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them toes buried, +if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite +hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' +sez father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' +rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's +boy. 'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is +toes 'as nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite +polite. 'It's the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e +'ave any feelin' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' +sez the doctor, ''is feelin's hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, +that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. 'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in +my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear +sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in yer 'and, nor yet in +yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel the pain.' +'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But the +feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd +like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, +Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im +off. But father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, +'Don't 'is mind know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is +mind feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes +to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes, I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite +short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of +'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But 'e hain't got no toes to +give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind or henywheres else.' +'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin' 'is temper, fer +father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes used to +give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes is +gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make +'im stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If +I don't 'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh +goin' to start that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' +'Yeh don't need no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old +feelin' of toes a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no--' 'Look 'ere,' +sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes +reachin' up to the brain. Don't yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt +the nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the telegraph.' +Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them nerves, doctor?' sez +'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone +them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve feelin' +is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the +feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' +'That's so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the +nerves is gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' +sez the doctor, an' I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest +quit it right now.' 'Well, well. All right, doctor,' sez father +quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble inquirin' mind, an' I jest +wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of +'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look a-'ere, Mr. +Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph wire. +'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll +call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, +we'll say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know +that's Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd +know somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't +any,' breaks in father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will +yeh?' sez the doctor, 'till I git through. Well; all 'long that +Bradford line yeh can give that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can +yeh make that Bradford call houtside of Bradford?' sez father. +'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I +suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do along the line. Now +ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds up to the +brain, "Toes! Toes! Toes!" an' all 'long that toe line yeh can git +the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, +then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' +''Undreds of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' +'Hankles? calves? shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' +sez father, quite triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, +an' heverythin', all them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' +'Yes,' sez the doctor, not seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez +'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em all shout "Toes?" W'y don't the +brain 'ear "Hankle" or "'Eel"?' Then the old doctor 'e did git mad +an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But father, 'e knows 'ow to +conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I 'ope as 'ow I know +'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor up an' 'e +sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention it,' +sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr. +Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very +well,' sez 'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a +lot of trouble if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no +more, but I seed 'im thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' +'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, 'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of +toes keeps up an' not 'eels or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen +gits a-shoutin' in this little 'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman +or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. An' I suppose w'en them toes gits +a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankle, or 'eel, but it's all +toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' 'e sez, as 'e druv' away, +'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin' them toes?'" + +"But," said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, "I do talk. But poor +Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young +lady come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to +sing, poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to +sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! +An 'e hain't ever done talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the +young doctor. An' a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls." + +Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names +by Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings +Iola reappeared. + +"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Fallows. "Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh +git back. Good-bye, Miss," she said to Margaret. "It does seem to +give me a fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights." + +It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing +for bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang. + +"It can't be that I am jealous," she said. "Of course, she is far +more attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her +better?" She shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. "Do +you know, you are as mean as you can be," she said viciously. + +At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft +singing. + +"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite +sound, "it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother +with a voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too." + +In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her +hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered +an involuntary exclamation of admiration. + +"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you." +With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for her "mean thoughts" she +put her arms about Iola and kissed her warmly. + +"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of +affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not half so lovely as you. +When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and +the children to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel +myself cheap and worthless." + +Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart. + +"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and +mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. +Wherever you go the people just fall down and worship you." As she +spoke she let down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell +like a cloud, a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. +Iola looked critically at her. + +"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and +your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I +can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in +difficulty. Yes. That's it," she continued, with her eyes on +Margaret's face, "I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I +can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. But suppose I +couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would forget me. +They wouldn't forget you." + +"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice +alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something +in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young +fellows are daft about you." + +"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow, +thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I believe I could make +them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me." + +"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You +ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening." + +"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like +you, and the men, too, in a way." + +"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're +around the boys don't look at me." + +"Yes, they do," said Iola, as if pondering the question. "Ben +does." + +Margaret laughed scornfully. "Ben likes my jelly." + +"And Dick does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a +keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, +though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush +spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck. + +"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me. +I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go +swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like--well-- +just like a boy, you know." + +"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they +had a chance to be anything." + +"Be anything!" cried Margaret hotly. "Why, Dick's going to be a +minister and--" + +"Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. +But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?" + +"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough," +replied Margaret indignantly. + +"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey +little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make +any stir." To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard +of." "And yet," she went on, "if he had a chance--" + +But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking +about? There are plenty of good men who are never heard of." + +"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't mean--of course your father. +Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney--" + +"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get +to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night." + +"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything +offensive. And I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to +love me. I can't bear to have people not love me. But more than +anyone else I want you." As she spoke she turned impulsively +toward Margaret and put her arms around her neck. Margaret +relented. + +"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good- +night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty." + +But Iola clung to her. "Good-night, dear Margaret," she said, her +lips trembling pathetically. "You are the only girl friend I ever +had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me." + +"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never +cease to love them." + +"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, +"don't turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me." + +"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a +child, "of course I will always love you. Good-night now." She +kissed Iola tenderly. + +"Good-night," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you +for a long time." + +"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill to-morrow +night, you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is +going to have Ben there for nursing and feeding." + +Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the +beginning of a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old +mill became a place of interest and delight to him. Perhaps his +happiest hours were spent in what was known as Barney's workroom, +where were various labour-saving machines for churning, washing, +and apple-paring, which, by Barney's invention, were run by the +mill power. He offered to connect the sewing machine with the same +power, but his mother would have none of it. + +Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of +a crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only +"paying his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as +well." + +The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the +Mill. It was with great difficulty that Margaret had been +persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern +conscience law under which she regulated her life made her suspect +those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was +a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick +set before her, with the completeness amounting to demonstration, +the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs you," he +argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, +weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and +refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We +all want you. You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet +invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should +throw off the burden at times, that finally weighed with her. + +The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the +old flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly +in the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of +restful delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer +evenings that fall in harvest weather when, after the burning heat +of the day, the cool air is beginning to blow across the fields +with long shadows. When their work was done the boys hurried to +join the little group under the big willows. They were all there. +Ben was set there in the big armchair, Mrs. Boyle with her +knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, Margaret with a +book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent +content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally singing +in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or plantation +hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To +her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever quite +fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be +a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of instrument. But in spite of her +there were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat +with sombre eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady +isles of the woods on the other side while Iola sang some of her +quaint Southern "baby songs." + +Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments +and love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to +sleep through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place +with the Psalms of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, +and it was with a shock at first that he heard the Southern girl +with her "foreign instrument" try over these songs that none but +his mother had ever sung to him. Listening to Iola's soft, +thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he was conscious +of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took on a new beauty, +but they lost something as well. + +"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after +Dick had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and +cadences, "and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They +are not the same a bit. They make me see different things and feel +different things when your mother sings." + +"Different how?" said Dick. + +"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my +mouth, just the difference between eating your mother's scones with +rich creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to +drink." + +"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the +guitar. They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a +different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a +wood violet and a garden rose." + +"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us +one now." + +"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward +Iola. "You would not be shaming your mother, Richard." + +"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly. + +"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. +Indeed, I did not know you could sing." + +Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no +word. + +"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the +honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a +'baby song,' too." + +"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he +began to play that exquisite Highland lament. + +It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft +drawl of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something +in that tone touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. +When Barney reached the end of the refrain his mother took up the +verse with the violin accompanying. + +Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she +had the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their +milking or of the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear +and sweet and with a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice +rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and cadences that +a tune takes on with age. As she sang her song in the soft Gaelic +tongue, with hands lying idly in her lap, with eyes glowing in +their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain and glen and loch fell +upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her feet, while Iola's +great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's face, softened to +tears. + +"Oh, that is too lovely!" cried Iola, when the song was done, +clapping her hands. "No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, +sad." She hid her face in her hands one impulsive moment, then +said softly, "I could never do that. Never! Never! What is it +you put into the song? What is it?" she cried, turning to Barney. + +"It's the moan of the sea," said Barney gravely. + +"It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside," said Ben Fallows. +"There hain't no words fer it." + +"Sing again," entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from +her voice. "Sing just one more." + +"This one, mother," said Barney, playing the tune, "your mother +used to sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'." + + + "How often haunting the highest hilltop, + I scan the ocean thy sail to see; + Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow? + Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me? + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, + O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be." + + +For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad +music upon them. + +"One more, mother," entreated Dick. + +"No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for +you. Aye, and for Margaret here." + +Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. "Thank you," she said, +lifting up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, "you have +given me great pleasure to-night." + +"Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with +a sudden pity for the motherless girl. "And we will be glad to see +ye when ye come back again." + +For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never +forget that afternoon. + +"And now, ladies and gentlemen," cried Dick, striking an attitude, +"though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished +the purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have +outlived its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for +itself a sphere of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn +without injury to all its members. I, therefore, respectfully +suggest that the department be organised upon a permanent basis +with headquarters at the Mill and my humble self at its head. All +who agree will say 'Aye'." + +"Aye," said Barney with prompt heartiness. + +"Me, too," cried Iola, holding up both hands. + +"Mother, what do you say?" + +"Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world." + +"And you?" turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm +thrown about her, "how do you vote?" + +"This member needs it too much"--with a somewhat uncertain smile-- +"to say anything but 'Aye'." + +"Then," said Dick solemnly, "the 'good cheer' department is hereby +and henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the +community here represented, and we earnestly hope that its members +will continue in their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we +do, that loyalty to this institution will be its highest reward." + +But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped +up for them all in that same department of "good cheer." + + + +VIII + +BEN'S GANG + + +The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and +bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close +upon the fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of +the spring grain. + +It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle +boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments +on the mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. +For the little farm, with the profits from the mill, could do +little more than provide a living for the family. Ordinarily the +lads worked for day's wages, the farmers gladly paying the highest +going, for the boys were famous binders and good workers generally. +This year, however, they had in mind something more ambitious. + +"Mother," said Dick, "did you hear of the new harvesting gang?" + +"And who might they be?" asked his mother, always on the lookout +for some nonsense from her younger son. + +"Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. +Ben's starting with us Monday morning." + +"Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, +I doubt, poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for +myself." + +"Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for +us. He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his +doctor here says so. And he will keep us busy." + +"If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some +pumpkins at bindin', I hain't worth my feed." + +"But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, "is he fit to go about that +machine? Something might happen the lad." + +"I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will +be at hand all the time." + +"And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? +You will only be hurting yourselves." + +"You watch us, mother," cried Dick. "We'll be after Ben like a dog +after a coon." + +"Indeed," said his mother. "I have heard that it takes four good +men to keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that +Mr. Morrison's Sam was telling me that they had all they could do +to follow up, the whole four of them." + +"Huh!" grunted Dick scornfully, "I suppose so. Four like Fatty +Morrison and that gang of his!" + +"Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your +neighbours," said his mother. + +"It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine +compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me." + +"Indeed, and you would be the better of it," replied his mother +compassionately, "with your bones sticking through your skin!" + +It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and +much elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into +partnership with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very +virtues which poor Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new +spirit that was waking in him, he was beginning to aspire. For the +weeks spent under Barney's care and especially in the atmosphere of +the Mill household had quickened in Ben new motives and new +ambitions. This Barney had noticed, and it was for Ben's sake more +than for their own that the boys had associated him with them in +their venture of taking harvesting contracts. And as the summer +went on they found no reason to regret the new arrangement. But it +was at the expense of long days and hard days for the two boys +following the reaper, and often when the day's work was done they +could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed, +there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal of his brother in +weight and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while +Barney from sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, +however, found them stiff and sore, it is true, but full of courage +and ready for the renewal of the long-drawn struggle which was +winning for them not only very substantial financial profits, but +also high fame as workers. The end of the harvest found them hard, +tough, full of nerve and fit for any call within the limit of their +powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion of such a call being +made upon them. A rainy day found him at the blacksmith shop with +the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop was full of horses and +men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All odd +jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine weather were on that day +brought to the shop. + +Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre +of a new interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, +there was a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was +brittle, and whose tongue took on a keener edge as his temper +became more uncertain. Withal, he had a little man's tendency to +brag. To-day, however, though conscious of the new interest +centring in him, and though visibly swollen with the importance of +his new partnership with the Boyle boys, he was exhibiting a +dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for that very +reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary. + +Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, +as he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of +"Old King" Morrison, the richest and altogether most important +farmer in the district. On this account Samuel was inclined to +assume the blustering manners of his portly, pompous, but +altogether good-natured father, the "Old King." But while bluster +in the old man, who had gained the respect and esteem that success +generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy it became ridiculous and +at times offensive. The young man had been entertaining the +assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid descriptions of +various achievements in the harvest field on the part of himself or +some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest and +most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of +a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" +himself driving the reaper. + +"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right +off that table! You bet!" + +"How many of you?" asked Ben sharply. + +"Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected +question. + +"How many shocking?" continued Ben, with a judicial air. + +"Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!" + +"I guess so," grunted Ben, "from what I've seed." + +Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. +Fallows, may I ask?" he inquired with fine scorn. + +"Seed? Seed you bindin', of course." + +"Well, what are ye hootin' about?" Sam was exceedingly wroth. + +"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of +excitement Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I used to talk more +when I wasn't so busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere +'arvest. We hain't had time. When we're on a job," continued Ben, +as the crowd drew near to listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', +and when we're through we don't feel like it. We don't need, to." + +A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words. + +"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. +"There ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a +pretty good day's work, Ben, ten acres." + +Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He +had no love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was +and at whose hands he had suffered many things. + +"Two men!" shouted Sammy. "Your gang, I suppose you mean." + +Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' +Jemima!" he cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. "Them's the two, if +yeh want to know. Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery +corner to swap lies an' to see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a- +workin', they do. They don't wait to cool hoff before they drink +fer fear they git foundered, as if they was 'osses, like you +fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw his h's +recklessly about. "You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never +seed any." + +At this moment "King" Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop. + +"Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?" he exclaimed. + +Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I +guess," he growled. + +"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old +King," addressing the crowd generally. + +"Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his son Sam. + +"Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy." + +"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no +awe of his father. + +"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the +matter, Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n +that, we're glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what +are they doin' to you?" + +"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's" +kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round here to beat the band +'bout his gang." + +"Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers." + +"But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben blows about." + +"Well, that would be a little strong," said the "Old King." "Why, +it took my four boys a good day to tie up ten acres, Ben." + +"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," said Ben, in what could hardly be +called a respectful tone. + +"Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just +quit yer blowin' an' talk sense." + +"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," repeated Ben stubbornly. + +"And I tell you, Ben," replied the "Old King," with emphasis, "your +boys--and they're good boys, too--can't tie no ten acres in a day. +They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on my +west fifty. If they can do it in a day they can have it." + +"They wouldn't take it," answered Ben regretfully. "They can do +it, fast enough." + +Then the "Old King" quite lost patience. "Now, Ben, shut up! +You're a blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the whole field against +$50 that it can't be done." + +"I'll take you on that," said Alec Murray. + +"What?" The "Old King" was nonplussed for a moment. + +"I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it." + +But the "Old King" was too much of a sport to go back upon his +offer. "It's big odds," he said. "But I'll stick to it. Though I +want to tell you, there's nearer twelve acres than ten." + +"I know the field," said Alec. "But I'm willing to risk it. The +winner pays the wages. How long a day?" continued Alec. + +"Quit at six." + +"The best part of the day is after that." + +"Make it eight, then," said the "Old King." "And we'll bring it +off on Monday. We're thrashing that day, but the more the +merrier." + +"There's jest one thing," interposed Ben, "an' that is, the boys +mustn't know about this." + +"Why not?" said Alec. "They're dead game." + +"Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im +risk it. He's right careful of that boy." + +After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were +loitering, after their custom, in the churchyard waiting for the +service to begin, it was generally agreed that the "Old King" with +his usual shrewdness had "put his money on the winning horse." +Even Alec Murray, though he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom +friend, Rory Ross, that he "guessed his cake was dough, though they +would make a pretty big stagger at it." + +"If Dick only had Barney's weight," said Rory, "they would stand a +better chance." + +"Yes. But Dick tires quicker. An' he'll die before he drops." + +"But ten acres, Alec! And there's more than ten acres in that +field." + +"I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in +the centre. If I can only get them goin' their best clip--I'll +have to work it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's +such an ambitious little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The +first thing," continued Alec, "is to get them a good early start. +I'll have a talk with Ben." + +As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on +Monday morning when Mrs. Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at +once from her bed and called her sons. + +"You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to +Morrison's to-day. Here's Ben with the horses fed." + +"Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my watch." + +"No, it's six." + +Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney +concluded something must be wrong and routed Dick up, and with such +good purpose did they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from +the time the boys were called they were standing in the field +waiting for Ben to begin the day's work. + +After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the +field. "I'm going to shock," he announced. "They've got men +enough up at the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this +field in shock by to-morrow afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if +you hustlers can get it down by then." Alec was apparently in +great spirits. He brought with him into the field a breezy air of +excitement. + +"Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after +you to-day, remember." + +"Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?" said Ben, who +thoroughly understood Alec's game. + +"Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump in an' tie a few +myself." + +"Don't you fret yourself," replied Dick. "If you shock all that's +tied to-day you'll need to hang your shirt on the fence at night." + +"Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You +tie quicker than him, I hear." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Dick modestly, though quite convinced in +his own mind that he could. + +"Dick's a little quicker, ain't he?" said Alec, turning to Barney. + +"Oh, he's quick enough." + +"Did you never have a tussle?" inquired Alec, snatching up a couple +of sheaves in each arm and setting them in their places in the +shock with a quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others. + +"No," said Barney shortly. + +"I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself," he suggested +cunningly to Dick. "When a fellow isn't very strong he's got to be +careful." This was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to +do a man's work in the field, but he was miserable unless he took +first place. + +"Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me," he said, taking Alec's +bait. "I've worked with him all harvest and I'm alive yet." +Unconsciously Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes +Barney was left several sheaves behind. + +"He's just foolin' with you, Dick," jeered Alec. "He wouldn't hurt +you for the world." + +Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of +superiority now to one and again to the other, he put both boys +upon their mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a +racing pace, though neither would acknowledge that to the other. +Alec kept following them close, almost running for his sheaves, +flinging a word of encouragement now to one, now to the other, +shouting at Ben as he turned the corners, and by every means +possible keeping the excitement at the highest point. But he was +careful not to overdrive his men. By a previous arrangement and +without serious difficulty he had persuaded Teenie Ross, who had +come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing, to bring out a +lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour they sat in +the long grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch which +Dick at least was beginning to feel in need of. But not a minute +more did Alec allow. + +"I'm going to catch you fellows," he said, "if I've to take off my +shirt to do it." + +Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the +grain was heavier than Alec had counted upon, and when the noon +hour had arrived he estimated that the grain was not more than one- +third down. A full hour and a half he allowed his men for rest, +cunningly drawing them off from the crowd of threshers to a quiet +place in the orchard where they could lie down and sleep, waking +them when time was up that there should be no loss of a single +precious moment. As they were going out to the field Alec +suggested that instead of coming back for supper at five, according +to the usual custom, they should have it brought to them in the +field. + +"It's a long way up to the house," he explained, "and the days are +getting short." And though the boys didn't take very kindly to the +suggestion, neither would think of opposing it. + +But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers +knocked off work for the day and sauntered down to the field where +the reaping was going on, it looked as if the "Old King" were to +win his bet. + +"Keep out of this field!" yelled Alec, as the men drew near; +"you're interferin' with our work. Come, get out!" For the boys +had begun to take it easy and chatting with some of them. + +"Get away from here, I tell you!" cried Alec. "You line up along +the fence and we'll show you how this thing should be done!" + +Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the +field. The long shadows of the evening were falling across the +field. The boys were both showing weariness at every step they +took. Alec was at his wit's end. The grain was all cut, but there +was still a large part of it to bind. He determined to take the +boys into his confidence. He knew all the risk there was in this +step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury to his brother. It +was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to the boys, he +told them the issue at stake. + +"Boys," he said, "I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I don't +care a dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old King' Morrison +and I'd like to see you make a record. You've done a big day's +work already, and if you want to quit I won't say a word." + +"Quit!" cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. "What time +have we left?" + +"We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven." + +"Come on then, Barney!" cried Dick. "We're good for an hour, +anyway." + +"I don't know, Dick," said Barney, hesitating. + +"Come along! I can stand it and I know you can." And off he set +again at racing pace and making no attempt to hide it. + +In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths +apiece, the two long sides and the two short ends. + +"You can't do it, boys," said Alec regretfully. "Let 'er go." + +"Yes, boys," cried the "Old King," who, with the crowd, had drawn +near, "you've done a big day's work. You'll hurt yourselves. +You've earned double pay and you'll get it." + +"Not yet," cried Dick. "We'll put in the half hour at any rate. +Come on, Barney! Never mind your rake!" + +His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, +and but for his pale face there was no sign of weariness about him. +He flung away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf +together, caught it up, drew, tied, and fastened it as with one +single act. + +"We'll show them waltz time, Barney," he called, springing toward +the next sheaf. "One"--at the word he snatched up and made the +band, "two"--he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at the +same time into shape, "three"--he drew and knotted the band, +shoving the end in with his thumb. After him went Barney. One-- +two--three! and a sheaf was done. One--two--three! and so from +sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen minutes to go down the long +side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and sprang to his place +at the outer side. + +"Get inside!" shouted Barney, "let me take that swath!" + +"Come along!" replied Dick, tying his sheaf. + +"Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!" At +this Ben gave a yell. + +"They're goin' to do it!" he shouted, stumping around in great +excitement. + +"Double up, Dick!" cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the next and +tying them both together. Dick followed Barney's example, but here +his brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them +came the crowd, Alec leading them, watch in hand, all yelling. + +"Two minutes for that end, boys!" cried Alec, as they reached the +corner. "You're goin' to do it, my hearties! You're goin' to do +it!" They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end. + +"They can't do it, Alec," said the "Old King." "They'll hurt +themselves. Call them off!" + +"Are you all right, Dick?" cried Barney, swinging on to the outer +swath. + +"All right," panted his brother, striding in at his side. + +"Come on! We'll do it, then!" replied Barney. + +Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, +Barney gradually gaining by the doubling process. + +"Don't wait for me," gasped Dick, "if you can go faster!" + +"One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!" cried Alec, as +they reached the last corner. "One minute and a half, and we win!" + +There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, +two on the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. +The sheaves were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, +Barney doubled the first two, the second two, the third two, and +putting the last three together swung in upon Dick's swath where +there were two sheaves left. + +"Don't you touch it!" gasped Dick angrily. + +"How's the time, Alec?" panted Barney. + +"Half a minute." + +Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, +crying, "Out of the way there!" snatched his band, passing it +around the sheaf, tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood +with his hands on his knees, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. + +For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's +side, and patting him on the shoulder, said, "Great man, Dick! But +I was a fool to let you!" + +"That's what you were!" cried the "Old King," slapping Dick on the +back, "but there's the greatest day's work ever done in these +parts. The wheat's yours," he said, turning to Alec, "but begad! I +wish it was goin' to them that won it!" + +"An' that's where it is going," said Alec, "every blamed sheaf of +it, to Ben's gang." + +"We'll take what's coming to us," said Barney shortly. + +"I told yeh so," said Ben regretfully. + +"Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?" said Alec, +angry that he should be balked in his good intention to help the +boys. + +"We'll take our wages," repeated Barney in a tone that settled the +controversy. "The wheat is not ours." + +"Then it ain't mine," said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how +great peril his $50 had been. + +"Well, boys," said the "Old King," "it ain't mine. We'll divide it +in three." + +"We'll take our wages," said Barney again, in sullen determination. + +"Confound the boy!" cried the "Old King." "What'll we do with the +wheat? I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had hard luck this year." + +"No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" said Ben, stumping over to +Barney's side. "I stand with the boss. I take my wages." + +"Well, dog-gone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's +two days' good work there. And the rest we'll give to the church. +Good thing the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!" + +"But," added the "Old King," turning to his son Sam, "after this +you crawl into your shell when there's any blowin' bein' done about +Ben's gang." + + + +IX + +LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS + + +The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the +snake fence massed the clover, red and white. Through the rails +peeped the thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the +top rail the white crest of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze +this sweet summer day. In the clover the bumblebees, the crickets, +and the grasshoppers boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting their joy +to be alive in so good a place and on so good a day. Above, the +sky was blue, pure blue, and all the bluer for the specks of cloud +that hung, still-poised like white-winged birds, white against the +blue. Last evening's rain had washed the world clean. The sky, +the air, the flowers, the clover, red and white, the kindly grass +that ran green everywhere under foot, the dusty road, all were +washed clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in the maples and +thorns, the birds, their summer preoccupations forgotten at the +bidding of this new washed day, recalled their spring songs and +poured them forth with fine careless courage. + +In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this +flower-prinked, song-filled, clean washed, grassy lane stepped Dick +this summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the +well-trained athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart +makes him merry music. A clean-looking man was Dick, harmonious +with the day and with the lane down which he stepped. Against the +grey of his suit his hands, his face, and his neck, where the +negligee shirt fell away wide, revealing his strong, full curves +spreading to the shoulders, all showed ruddy brown. He was a man +good to look upon, with his springy step, his tan skin, his clear +eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a soul looked forth +clean and unafraid upon God's good world of wholesome growing +things. + +From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his +boyhood's love of the open sky and of all things under it. He had +just come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest +in many ways of the college course. His class had thrust him into +a man's place of leadership in that world where only manhood +counts, and he had "made good." In the literary, in the gym, on +the campus he had made and held high place, and on the class lists, +in spite of his many distractions, he had ranked a double first. +Best of all, it filled him with warm gratitude to remember that +none of his fellows had grudged him any of his good things. What a +decent lot they were! It humbled him to think of their pride in +him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse oblige. + +At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain +that had been running below his consciousness, like the minor +strain in rich music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At +this spot Barney always made him pause to look back upon the old +mill in its frame of beauty. Poor Barney! Twice he had gone down +to the exams, and twice he had failed. Of all in the home circle +only Dick could understand the full bitterness of the cup of +humiliation that his brother had put silently to his lips and +drained. To his mother, the failure brought no surprise, and she +would have been glad enough to have him give up "his notion of +being a doctor and be content with the mill." She had no ambitions +for poor Barney, who was "a quiet lad and well-doing enough," an +encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch of +genius. She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly +understand how deep the shame had gone into his proud, reserved +heart. His father did not talk about it, but carried him off to +look at some of the mill machinery which had gone wrong, and it was +only by a gentler tone in his voice that Barney knew that his +father understood. But Dick, with his fuller knowledge of college +life, realized as none other of them did the extent of Barney's +miserable sense of defeat. + +And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his +anew. The causes of his failure were not far to seek. "He had no +chance!" said Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking +with gloomy eyes upon the scene of beauty before him. Things had +changed since old Doctor Ferguson's time. The scientific basis of +medicine was coming to its place in medical study, and the old +doctor's contempt for these new-fangled notions had wrought ill for +Barney. Dick remembered how he had gone, hot with indignation for +his brother, to the new English professor in chemistry, whose +papers were the terror of all pass men and, indeed, all honour men +who stuck too closely to the text-book. He remembered the +Englishman's drawling contempt as, after looking up Barney's name +and papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, "He knows +nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest +experiment, don't you know." Poor Barney! the ancient and +elementary chemistry of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the +remotest affinity to that which Professor Fish expected. Dick was +glad this morning that he had had sense enough to hold his tongue +in the professor's presence. It comforted him to recall the +generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent, the most brilliant +surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name. + +"Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder!" + +"Fish doesn't think so," Dick had replied. + +"Oh! Fish be hanged!" the doctor had answered, with the fine +contempt of a specialist in practical work for the theorist in +medicine. He has some idiotic notions in his head that he plucks +men for not knowing. I don't say they are not necessary, but +useful chiefly for examination purposes. Send your brother down. +Send him down. For if ever I saw an embryonic surgeon, he's one! +When he comes, bring him to me." + +"He'll come," Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it was +for his sake Barney had remained grinding at home. + +"And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, "or no 'varsity for +me." He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from his +football comrade, young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, +to Barney and himself positions in one of the lumber mills far up +the Ottawa, where, by working overtime, there was a chance of +making $100 a month and all found. "And we'll make it go," said +Dick. "There's $300 apiece for us, and that's more than we want. +Poor old chap!" he continued, musing aloud, "he'll get his chance +at last. Besides, we'll get him away from that girl, confound her! +though I'm afraid it's no use now." + +A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. "That +girl" was Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the +growing dark, with halting words and with shamed face, as if he +were doing his brother a wrong, Barney had confided to him that +Iola and he had come to an understanding of their mutual love. +Dick remembered this morning, and he would remember to his dying +day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, that had smitten him as +he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as Barney had gone +on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing, as it +seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a gleam +of hope, had cried, "We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help +you this summer." And then again the inevitableness of what had +taken place had come over him at Barney's reply: "But, Dick, I +don't want to get out of it." At that moment Dick's world changed. +No longer was he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place. +In vain Barney, guessing the thought in his heart, had protested +with eager, almost piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to +him as ever. In the first acute moment of his pain he had cried +out some quick word of bitter reproach, but the look on Barney's +face had checked him. He was glad now that he had said nothing +against the girl. And as he thought of her in the saner light of +the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair to her, and +yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that +confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. +She's got something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if +he had gone too far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good +enough, I guess, but not for Barney." That was one of the bitter +things that had survived the night. She was not good enough for +his brother, his hero, his beau ideal of high manhood ever since he +could think. "But there is no one good enough for Barney," he +continued, "except--yes--there is one--Margaret--she is good +enough--even for Barney." As Barney among men, so Margaret among +women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his life he had put +these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying his +prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always +come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like +Barney in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine +sense of honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, +and, more than anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. +One could never get to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, +there would still be love there. + +It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing +within him this morning. Even last night, after the first few +moments of pain, the thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing +an odd sense of happiness, and early this morning the first +consciousness of loss, that had made him tighten his arm hard about +his brother, had been followed by that feeling of happiness, +indefinable at first, but soon traced to the thought of Margaret. +For the first time in his life he thought of her unrelated to +Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high spirit, +her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never for +himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney +should have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a +timid fluttering of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great +joy that the way to Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, +he might love her. With such marvellous swiftness does love work +that, when his mother bade him go "pay his duty to the minister," +his heart responded with so great a leap of joy that he found +himself glancing quickly at the faces of those about him, sure that +they must have noticed. + +And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make +acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he +wondered what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? +He glanced at his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning +work would be done. She might come for a little stroll in the +woods at the back of the manse, but he would say nothing to her to- +day. He would wait and watch to read her heart. He sprang up the +bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go on his way. A gleam +of white through the snake fence against the pink of the clover +caught his eye. Under the thorn tree--he knew the spot well--and +upon the grass, lay a girl. "By Jove!" he whispered, his heart +stopping, thumping, then rushing, "it is Margaret." He would creep +up and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He +was close to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm +under her head, the other flung wide in an abandonment of +weariness. He stood gazing down upon her. Pale she looked to him, +and thin and weary. The lines about her mouth and eyes spoke of +cares and of griefs, too. How much older she was than he had +thought! "Poor girl! she has been having a hard time! It's a +shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!" At the +thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great +pity stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had +ever filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for +his brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth +and swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of +himself and, before he knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and +kissed her lips. A long shivering sigh shook her. "Barney," she +murmured, a slight smile playing about her lips. She opened her +eyes. A moment she lay looking up into Dick's face, then, suddenly +wide awake, she sat upright. + +"You! Dick!" she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in +her voice. "You--you dare to--" + +"Yes, Margaret," said Dick, aghast at what he had done, "I couldn't +help it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and--and I love you so +much." + +"You," cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. +"What did you say?" + +"I said, Margaret," he replied, gathering his courage together, +"that I love you so much." + +"You love me?" she gasped. + +"Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night." + +"Last night?" she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown +pale, but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before. + +"Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret," he hurried to +say, "but only last night I found out I might love you. I never +let myself go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney--" +At the mention of his brother's name, the face that had been +white with a look almost of horror flamed quickly with red. "Last +night," continued Dick, wondering at the change in her, "I found +out, and this morning, Margaret, the whole world is just humming +with joy because I know I may love you all I want to. Oh, it's +great! I never imagined a fellow could hold so much love or so +much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do you knew what I am +talking about?" Margaret's face had grown pale and haggard, as +with pain, and her eyes were wide open with pity. + +"Yes, Dick," she said slowly, "I know. I have just been learning." +The brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of herself. "I +know all the joy and--all the pain." She stopped short at the look +in Dick's face. The buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. +A look of perplexity, of great fear, and then of desolation, like +that on her own face, spread over his. He knew her too well to +misunderstand her meaning. She leaned over to him, still kneeling +in the grass. "Oh, Dick, dear!" she cried, taking his hand in hers +with a mother-touch and tone, "must you suffer, too? Oh, don't say +you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!" Her voice +rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with her +eyes. + +"Do you say I must?" he answered in a hoarse tone. "I love you +with all my heart." + +"Oh, don't Dick, dear," she pleaded, "don't say it!" + +"Yes, I will," he said, recovering his voice, "because it's true. +And I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself +love you. It was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, +you know." + +"Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. + +"I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so +for Barney. But last night"--here a quick flash of joy came into +his face at the memory--"I found out, and this morning I could +hardly help shouting it as I came along to you." He paused, and, +leaning toward her, he took her hand. "Don't you think, Margaret, +you might perhaps some time." The piteous entreaty in his voice +broke down the girl's proud courage. + +"Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!" she sobbed, "don't! Don't ask me!" Her +sobs came tempestuously. + +He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently +said, "Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand +that, and--well, I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't +think about me. I'll get hold of myself. There now--hush, hush, +girlie. Don't cry like that!" He held her close to him, caressing +her till she grew quiet. + +At length she drew away, saying, "I don't know why I should act +like this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It +has been a hard winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together +for hours. Oh, it was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked +aloud. Don't think me horrid," she went on hurriedly. "I wonder I +am not ashamed to tell you. But I never let anyone know, neither +of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, Dick, no one knows." She +sat up straight, her courage coming back. "I never meant to tell +you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware." A little smile was +struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint flush touched +her pale cheek. "But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't we go +back? Won't you forget what you have said?" Dick had been looking +at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes +a look of misery that went to the girl's heart. + +"Forget!" he cried. "Tell me how." + +She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, +"Oh, Dick! must we go on and on like this?" She pressed her hands +hard upon her heart. "There's a sore, sore pain right here," she +said. "Is there to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there +for two years." She was fast losing her grip of herself again. +Once more he caught her in his strong brown hands. + +"Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. +God--yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. +He can't let us go on like this!" + +The words steadied her. + +"I know, Dick," she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, "there +has been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. +He will help you, too. Come," she continued, "let us go." + +"No, sit down and talk," replied Dick. He looked at his watch. "A +quarter after ten," he said, in surprise. "Can the whole world +change in one little quarter of an hour?" he asked, looking up at +her, "it was ten when I stopped at the hill." + +"Come, Dick," she said again, "we'll talk another time, I can't +trust myself just now. I was going to your mother's." + +But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to +him as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common +life, and he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its +ordinary doings. + +"I can't, Margaret," he said. "You go. Let me fight it out." + +She knew too well where he was. "No, Dick, I will not leave you +here. Come, do." She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her +arms about his neck and kissed him. "Help me, Dick," she +whispered. + +It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her +once, and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, +again and again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring +in hoarse, passionate tones, "I love you! I love you!" For a few +moments she suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew +apart from him. Her action recalled him to himself. + +"Forgive me, Margaret," he cried brokenly, "I'm a great, selfish +brute. I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I +weaken again, don't think me quite a cad." + +He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a +load, gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set +off down the lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the +other near. + + + +X + +FOR A LADY'S HONOUR + + +Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?" asked Dr. Bulling +of Iola. + +They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little +room it was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of +its occupant. Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of +cushions in the cosey corner, the prints upon the walls, and the +books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce +the surroundings of luxurious art without the large outlay that art +demands. At one side of the room stood a piano with music lying +carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, which she +seldom used now except when intimate friends gathered for one of +the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing +the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on +which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the fireplace +that had determined the choice of the room. + +As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden +splendour. + +"Yes, of course," she cried. + +"And why 'of course'?" inquired the doctor. + +"Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and +his gold medal." + +"And who is that, pray?" + +"Mr. Boyle." + +"Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. +Have seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as +rather crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?" + +"Yes," replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, "he is from +the country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years +ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being +crude, I think you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not +one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of +his profession as yet"--this with a little bow to her visitor--"but +some day he will be great. And, besides, he is very nice." + +"Of that I have no doubt," said the doctor, "seeing he is a friend +of yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be +there and will be glad to call for you." The doctor could hardly +prevent a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice. + +"You are very kind," said Iola, with just enough reserve in her +manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, "but I am going +with friends." + +"Friends?" inquired the doctor. "And who, may I ask?" There was +an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him +the more sweetly. + +"Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. +Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss +Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the +General Hospital." + +"Nurse Robertson?" said Bulling. "Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty +much of a saint, isn't she?" + +"A saint?" cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her +voice. "Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and +jolliest girl I know." + +"I should hardly have called her jolly," said the doctor, with an +air of dismissing her. + +"Oh, she is!" cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing +eager enthusiasm. "You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at +sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the +children in the most wonderful way. Looked after me, too." + +"Poor girl!" murmured the doctor. "She had a handful, sure +enough." + +"Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old +country, and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new +wife." + +"And put the girl's nose out of joint," said the doctor. + +"Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, +and, on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here +she has been for the last two years. She shares my room when she +is at home, which is not often, and still takes care of me." + +"Most fortunate young lady she is," murmured the doctor. + +"So I am going with them," continued Iola. + +"Then I suppose nobody will see you." The doctor's tone was quite +gloomy. + +"Why, I love to see all my friends." + +"It will be the usual thing," said the doctor, "the same circle +crowding you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you." + +"That depends on how much you--" cried Iola, throwing a swift smile +at him. + +"How much I want to?" interrupted the doctor eagerly. "You know +quite well I--" + +"How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must +speak to all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan +one's time. How ever," she continued, "one can hardly expect to +see much of the very popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always +so fully taken up." + +"Oh, rot!" said the doctor. "I say, can't we get off a little +together? There are nice quiet nooks about the old building." + +"Oh, doctor, how shocking!" But her eyes belied her voice, and the +doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant +convocation day at Trinity. + +The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the +students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the +dean and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, +enough to be the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the +undergraduate body finding expression, now in college songs, whose +chief characteristic was the vigour with which they were rendered, +personal remarks in the way of encouragement, deprecation, pity, +or gentle reproof to all who had to take part in the public +proceedings, and at intervals in wildly uproarious applause and +cheers at the mention of the name of some favourite. At no point +was the fervour greater than when Barney was called to receive his +medal. To the little group of friends at the left of the desk, +consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed as if the +cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the +occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the +difficulties he had to contend with in the early part of his +course, of the perseverance and indomitable courage the young man +had shown, and the singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he +had manifested in the special line of study for which this medal +was granted, the dead silence that pervaded the room was even more +eloquent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. Trent's +remarks and that continued until Barney had taken his place again +among the graduating class. + +Then someone called out, "What's the matter with old Carbuncle?" +eliciting the usual vociferous reply, "He's all right!" + +"By Jove," said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, "isn't that +great? And the old boy deserves it every bit!" But Margaret made +no reply. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for +a spot of red in each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him +for a moment, and he noticed that the large blue eyes were full of +tears. + +"It's all right, little girl," he whispered, giving her hand a +little pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and +the look in her eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke +in his throat. + +On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride +and joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in +the face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile +so full of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as +if all he had endured for the last three years were quite worth +while. + +After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to +the little group about Barney. + +"Congratulations, Boyle," he said, in the somewhat patronizing +manner of a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his +parchment in his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men +wear new clothes, "that was a remarkable fine reception you had +to-day." + +Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of +Bulling's tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to +observe the familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling +with Iola, but it made him more furious to notice that, instead of +resenting, Iola seemed to be pleased with his manner. Just now, +however, she was giving herself to Barney. Her pride in him, her +joy in him, and her quiet appreciation of him, were evident to all, +so evident, indeed, that after a few words Dr. Bulling took himself +off. + +"Brute!" said Barney as the doctor retired. + +"Why, I am sure he seems very nice," said Iola, raising her +eyebrows in surprise. + +"Nice!" said Barney contemptuously. "If you knew how the men speak +of him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and +he's in the swim, but he's a beast, all the same." + +"Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!" cried Iola, "for you know he's +been a great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite +devoted to him." Something in the tone of her voice, and more in +the smile which she gave Barney, took the sting out of her words. + +Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, +chiefly because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a +circle of her own admiring friends, and among them the most +insistent was Dr. Bulling, who finally, with bluff, good-natured +but almost rude aggressiveness, carried her off to the tearoom. It +took all the joy out of the day for Barney, and on his behalf, for +Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of the afternoon Iola's +attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little +coterie of friends. + +And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against +Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the +hospital staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due +chiefly to the exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not +only to bring into closer touch with each other the members of the +hospital staff, but also to be a kind of introduction of Barney to +the inner circle of medical men in the city. For the past year +Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as his assistant, and, indeed, +Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition of an assistantship to +him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, and young +Drake also, who owed his parchment that day to Barney's merciless +grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his steadying friendship. +Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and his large social +connection than for his professional standing, had been invited, was +present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him about +applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner +was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines +abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result +that as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group +about Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was +drinking water and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found +his attention divided between his conversation with Trent and the +talk of Bulling, who, with his friends, sat across the table. As +this group became more boisterous, they absorbed to themselves the +attention of the whole company. Conscious of the prestige his +wealth and social position accorded him, and inflamed by the wine he +was drinking, Bulling became increasingly offensive. The talk +degenerated. The stories and songs became more and more coarse in +tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of this kind, +and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no means +inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. +Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he +was about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by +a look of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend. + +"Disgusting brute!" said Trent, in a low voice. + +But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon +Bulling. He had his glass in his hand. + +"Here's to the Lane!" he was saying, "the sweetest little Lane in +all the world!" + +"She's divine!" replied Foxmore. "And what a voice! She'll make +Canada famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?" + +"In church," replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of +his followers. "That's right," he continued, "heard her sing, set +things in motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. +Introduced her to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing +in her line in the city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A +dear, sweet little lane it is," he continued in a tone of +affectionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his teeth in +furious rage. + +"That she is," said Smead enthusiastically, "and thoroughly +straight, too!" + +"Oh," said Foxmore, "there's no lane but has a turning. And trust +Bulling," he added coarsely, "for finding it out." + +"Well," said Bulling, with a knowing smile, "this little Lane is +straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's +lines run in curves, you know." And again his wit provoked +applauding laughter. But before the laughter had quite faded out a +voice was heard, clear and cutting. + +"Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!" The words were plainly audible +to every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company. + +"What?" said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not +heard aright. + +"I say you are a cowardly liar!" + +"What the deuce do you mean?" + +"You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young +lady. I say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to +say so." + +For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent. + +"Quite right," said Trent. "Beastly cad!" + +Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. "You impertinent young cub! What do +you mean?" + +For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and +flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant +every man was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice. + +"Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!" + +"No hurry about this, boys," said Bulling quietly; "I'll make him +eat his words before he's half an hour older." + +Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. "Let me at him. He's a +great knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know +anything about it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up." Dick +had been 'varsity champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick +aside with quiet, stern words. + +"Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere +to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour +or it may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through +with him." + +Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to +appease the doctor and to patch up the peace. + +"If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off," were the doctor's +terms. + +"If he says he lied," was Barney's condition. + +"Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," said Bulling; "it will not +take more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke." + +The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to +receive a heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he +knew nothing of the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was +entirely master of it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, +the doctor easily blocking, avoiding and sending in killing blows, +till at length bloody, dazed, panting, Barney had to lean against +his friends to recover his wind and strength. Opposite him, cool, +smiling, and untouched, stood his adversary. + +"This is easy, boys," he smiled. "Now, you young whipper-snapper," +he continued, addressing Barney, "perhaps you've had enough. Let +me tell you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, +I'll send you to sleep!" As he spoke he closed his teeth with a +savage snap. + +"Will you say you're a liar?" said Barney, facing his opponent +again, and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings. + +"Ah, quit it!" said the doctor contemptuously, "Come along, you +fool, if you must have it!" + +Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a +heavy left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, +quickly following with his right and again with a last terrific +blow upon the jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell +with a crash upon the floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang +at Bulling, but half a dozen men pulled him off. + +"Let him come," said Bulling, with a laugh, "I've a very fine +assortment of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable +terms." + +Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and +Drake were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and +hands. + +"Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, +someone," said Dr. Trent. "A more cowardly brute I've never seen. +You're a disgrace to the profession, Bulling." + +"Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent," said Bulling +cynically. + +But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed +signs of reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could +sit up. Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the +lavatory. + +"Here, Boyle," said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney +sat up, "a little more brandy and water." + +For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing +stupidly about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, +"Where is he? He's not gone?" He seized the glass of brandy and +water from Dr. Treat's hands and drank it off. "Get me another," +he said. "Is he gone?" he repeated, making an effort to rise. + +"Never mind, Boyle, he's gone." + +"Wait till another day, Barney," entreated Dick. "Never mind +to-night." + +At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud +laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked +to the table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a +minute he stood stretching his arms. + +"Ah, that's better," he said, and started toward the lavatory, but +Dick clung to him. + +"Barney, listen to me," he entreated, his voice coming in broken +sobs. "He'll kill you. Let me take your place." + +"Dick, keep out of it," said Barney. "Don't worry. He'll hurt me +no more, but he'll say it before I'm done." And, throwing off the +restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling +was arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he +turned around. + +"I'm sorry, Boyle," he began, "but you brought it on yourself, you +know." + +Barney walked straight up to him. + +"I didn't hear you say you are a liar." + +"Look here," cried Bulling, "haven't you got enough. Be thankful +you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!" + +"Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?" + +Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel. + +"I say, boys," said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, "keep this +fool off. I don't want to kill him." + +Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney. + +"Now, Boyle, quit it," said Foxmore. "There's no use, you see." +He laid his hand on Barney's arm. + +Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him +aside, but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet +away. + +"Get back!" cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching +him. As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of +its legs, swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the +marble floor, and, putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one +mighty wrench had the leg free in his hand. + +"You men stand back," he said in a low voice, "and don't any of you +interfere." + +Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back +to their places, leaving a wide space about him. + +"Good heavens!" said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, "the +man is mad! Call a policeman, some of you." + +"Drake, lock that door and bring me the key," said Barney. + +As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward +Bulling, the latter's pallor increased. "I take you men to +witness," he said, appealing to the company, "if murder is done I'm +not responsible. I'm defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to +kill." + +"No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his club to Drake, "you +won't strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no +more. The boxing exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can +fight no more." + +The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and +terrible. + +"I'll give you your chance once again," he said. "Will you say you +are a cowardly liar?" + +Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their +faces, hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, +with an evident effort at bluster, "Not by a ---- sight! Come on! +Take your medicine!" But the lesson of the last half hour had not +been lost on Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his +man, feinting to draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, +Barney kept his antagonist in such rapid motion and so intensely on +the alert that his wind began to fail him, and it soon became +evident that he could not stand the pace for very long. + +"You've got him!" cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. "Keep +it up, Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five minutes +more!" + +"Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the +change in the situation. + +Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches +began to appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his +forehead. His breath came in short gasps. He knew he could not +last much longer. His only hope lay in immediate attack. He must +finish off his man within the next minute or accept defeat. Nature +was now taking revenge upon him for his long outraging of her laws. +Barney, on the other hand, though bruised and battered about the +face, was stepping about easily and lightly, without any sign of +the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading his opponent's +face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had arrived, and +waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing for +Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning +his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard +back into the angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow +and all would be over. + +"Look out, Barney!" yelled Dick. + +Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and +leaped at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one +long arm forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's +throat. "Ha!" he cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe +at arm's length. "Now! Now! Now!" As he uttered each word +between his clenched teeth he shook the gasping, choking wretch as +a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim struggled to get free, now +striking wild and futile blows, now clutching and clawing at those +terrible gripping fingers. His face grew purple; his tongue +protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell to his +side. "Keep your hands so," hissed Barney, loosening his grip to +give him air. "Ha! would you? Don't you move!" gripping him hard +again. "There!" loosening once more, "now, are you a liar? Speak +quick!" The blue lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which +the head made the sign. "Say it again. Are you a liar?" Once +more the head nodded and the lips attempted to speak. "Yes," said +Barney, still through his clenched teeth, "you are a cowardly +liar!" The words came forth with terrible deliberation. "I could +kill you with my hands as you stand. But I won't, you cur! I'll +just do this." As he spoke he once more tightened his grip upon +the throat and swung his open hand on the livid cheek. + +"For God's sake, Boyle," cried Foxmore, "let up! That's enough!" + +"Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious man on +the floor, "it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, +when he uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, +but that chilled the hearts of the hearers, "you laughed. You were +a beastly cad, weren't you? Speak!" + +"What? I--I--" gasped Foxmore, backing into the corner. + +"Quick, quick!" cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his +toes, "say it quick!" His fingers were working convulsively. + +"Yes, yes, I was!" cried Foxmore, backing further away behind the +others. + +"Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, "you would all of you +laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!" He +walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the +corner in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. +"You're not fit to live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is +safe from you!" His voice rose loud and thin and harsh. He was +fast losing hold of himself. His ghastly face, bloody and horribly +disfigured, made an appalling setting for his blazing eyes. Nearer +and nearer the crowd he walked, gnashing and grinding his teeth +till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury of his Highland +ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a wild beast's +lust of blood. Further and further back cowered the group without +a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they. + +"Barney," said Dick quietly, "come home." He stopped short, with +a mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few moments he stood +silent looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them +rest upon the doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, +without a word, turned and slowly passed out of the room. + +"Gad!" said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, "if the devil +looks like that I never want to see him." + + + +XI + +IOLA'S CHOICE + + +Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her +eyes shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with +a warm light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters +lay on her table. She sat some moments holding one which she had +opened, while she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the +big elms that overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the +dream should break and vanish. As she lay back in her chair +looking out upon the moving leaves and waving boughs, she allowed +the past to come back to her. How far away seemed the golden days +of her Southern childhood. Almost her first recollection of +sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep impression upon her +heart, was when the men carried out her father in a black box and +when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared veranda, she was +taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the memory of +her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her soul +beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid +discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first +glad freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her +own bread as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, +freedom and love and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone +Mill. With the memory of the Mill, there rose before her, clear- +limned and vividly real, one face, rugged, strong, and passionate, +and the thought of him brought a warmer light to her eyes and a +stronger beat to her heart. Every feature of the moonlight scene +on the night of the barn-raising when first she saw him stood out +with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the barn gleaming +bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding about, and, +sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the barn +floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while +she sang. At that point it was that life for her began. + +A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the +music professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with +rapturous delight playing for her while she sang her first great +oratorio aria. She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the +dawning sense of new powers as the old man, with his hands upon her +shoulders, cried in his trembling, broken voice, "My dear young +lady, the world will listen to you some day!" That was the +beginning of her great ambition. That day she began to look for +the time when the world would come to listen. Then followed weary +days and weeks and months and years, weary with self-denials new to +her and with painful struggling with unmusical pupils, for she +needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings and failings in +the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to heart-break +with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends--how she +loathed it--of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most +objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and +schemes for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once +insure not only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement +as well. And now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter +she held in her hand was proof of it. She glanced once more at the +written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here and there, "We +have succeeded at last--the Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you +only want a chance--here it is--you can do the part well." She +smiled a little. Yes, she knew she could do the part. "And now +let nothing or nobody prevent you from accepting Mrs. Duff +Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a beautiful +yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will be +gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, +I foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile +slightly sarcastic to curl her lips. + +"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. +Saturday? That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they +had it made another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't +either." + +For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays +spent in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day +before. The utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between +that day and the other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the +soothing peace, and the sense of sacredness that pervaded life on +that day, made the Sabbaths in the Manse like blessed isles of rest +in the sea of time. Never, since her two years spent there, had +she been able to get quite away from the sense of obligation to +make the day differ from the ordinary days of the week. No, she +was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend its +hours quietly enough upon the yacht. + +She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the +address written in bold characters. "This is the Duff Charrington +invitation, I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she +does it nicely, at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, +somewhat against her inclination." + +Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away +down the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was +drawing near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of +song, Patti, Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her +mind, their regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every +land, their country seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot +was in the path. It only remained for her to press forward. Work? +She well knew how hard must be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson +she had learned, and thoroughly well, during these past years, how +to work long hours, to deny herself the things her luxurious soul +longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear with and smile at those +she detested. All these she would endure a little longer. The +days were coming when she would have her desire and do her will. + +She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she +cried, seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. +"Barney, poor old boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from +opening the letter. Where had Barney been in this picture of the +future years upon which she had been feasting her soul? Aghast, +she realized that, amid its splendid triumphs, Barney had not +appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she murmured somewhat +impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could not quite see. +Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages to their +courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful as +financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola +smiled a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these +discreetly shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful +husbands. Would he be her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes +and a flush upon her cheek. Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for +a time. For some years she must be free to study, and--well, it +was better to be free till she had made her name and her place in +the world. Then when she had settled down Barney would come to +her. + +But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his +great love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid +of him. He was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the +past three years she had made trial of that immovable strength, +seeking to draw him away from his work to some social engagement, +to her so important, to him so incidental. She had always failed. +His work absorbed him as her art had her, but with a difference. +With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a means to it. To gain +some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some finer skill, that +was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks and +practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public. +Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to +her feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to +it, come what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. +And Iola, while she was provoked by what she called his +stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of that silently resisting +strength she could neither shake nor break. No, Barney was not +fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient husband. + +What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled +her to discover that her plan had been complete without him. +Complete? Ah, no. Her life without Barney would be like a house +without its back wall. During these years of study and toil, while +Barney could only give her snatches of his time, she had come to +feel with increasing strength that her life was built round about +him. When others had been applauding her successes, she waited for +Barney's word; and though beside the clever, brilliant men that +moved in the circle into which her art had brought her he might +appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued to be the +standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, his +poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions, +and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his +fine sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a +touch of reverence to the love she bore him. But more than all, it +was to Barney her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that +she held in all its depth and strength his heart's love. He would +never fail her. She could not exhaust that deep well. But the +question returned, where would Barney be while she was being +conducted by acclaiming multitudes along her triumphal way? "Oh, +he will wait--we will wait," she corrected, shrinking from the +heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years she could not +say. But deep in her heart was the determination that nothing +should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long cherished +and for which she had so greatly endured. + +She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with +an approaching delight. + + +"MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see +you last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or +two, because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the +dinner, night before last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him +swallow his lie and in the process got rather badly marked, though +not at all hurt. The doctor and his friends will, I think, guard +their tongues in future, at least in my hearing. Dr. Bulling is a +man of vile mind and of unclean life. He should not be allowed to +appear with decent people. I have written to forbid him ever +approaching you in public. You will know how to treat him if he +attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business to you. I +hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one but +me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage +of these people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be +necessary to your success. Your great voice needs not their +patronage; if so, failure would be better. When I am fit for your +presence I shall come to you. Good-bye. It is hard not to see +you. Ever yours, + +"Barney." + + +Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for +her castle in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by +Barney's hand. She read the note hurriedly again. + +"He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling." She recalled a sentence +in the doctor's letter. "Let no one or nothing keep you from +accepting this invitation." "He's afraid Barney will keep me back. +Nonsense! How stupid of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He +doesn't understand these things. There has been a horrid row of +some kind and now he asks me to cut Dr. Bulling!" She glanced at +Barney's letter. "Well, he doesn't ask me, but it's all the same-- +'you will know how to treat him.' He's too proud to ask me, but he +expects me to. It would be sheer madness! Wouldn't the Duff +Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is preposterous! I +must go! I shall go!" + +Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of +passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously +angry. It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day +there was no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of +indignant rage so heart-shaking that after it had passed she was +thankful she had been alone. + +"What's the matter with me?" she asked herself. She did not know +that the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great +a part of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive +rock of Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. +"What shall I do?" she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. +"Margaret will tell me. No, she would be sure to side with Barney. +She would think it was wicked to go on Sunday, anyway, and, +besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about things. I wish I +could see Dick. Dick will understand. He has seen more of this +life and--oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick to +see Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that +Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note +and she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would +accept the invitation. "I will accept at once. I wish I had +before I read Barney's note. I really had accepted in my mind, +and, besides, the arrangements were all made. I'll write the +letters now." She hastened to burn her bridges behind her so that +retreat might be impossible. "There," she cried, as she sealed, +addressed, and stamped the letters, "I wish they were in the box. +I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let +this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney +should not ask it!" A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing +her temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, +would not force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought +to prolong this mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in +distress whom it was Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. "I'll +just go and post these now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat +and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the passing of her +self-pity might leave her to face again the thought of Barney's +inevitable and immovable opposition. + +"There, that's done," she said to herself, as the lid of the post +box clicked upon her letters. "Oh, I wonder--I wish I hadn't!" +What she had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, +and now her self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with +the inevitable results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's +dark, rugged face with the deep-seeing eyes. "He always makes you +feel in the wrong," she said impatiently. "You can never think +what to say. He always seems right, and," she added honestly, "he +is right generally. Never mind, Dick will help me." She shook off +her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. Foxmore. + +"Ah, good-morning," smiled the doctor, showing a double row of +white teeth under his waxed mustache. "And how does the fair Miss +Lane find herself this fine morning?" + +It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust +which was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was +one of Dr. Bulling's friends, one of his toadies--and he had a +number of them--who represented to her all that was most loathsome +in her life. The effort to repress her disgust, however, only made +her smile the sweeter. Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one +of his fixed ideas that his manner was irresistible with "the sex." +Bulling might hold over him, by reason of his wealth and social +position, but give him a fair field without handicap and see who +would win out! + +"I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling +upon you this morning." + +"Oh, indeed. Well--ah--come in." Iola was fighting fiercely her +loathing of him. It was against this man and his friends that +Barney had defended her name. She led the way to her studio, +ignoring the silly chatter of the man following her upstairs, and +by the time he had fairly got himself seated she was coolly master +of herself. + +"Just ran in to give you the great news." + +"To wit?" + +"Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've +got it." + +Iola looked blank. + +"Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?" +Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words. + +"Surrendered? Just what, exactly?" + +"Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, +the Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl." + +"Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd +girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a +horse race or a pugilistic encounter." + +"A horse race!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in +it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it." + +"But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the +soloists were chosen for any other reason than that of merit." + +In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty +manner. + +"Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these +things go." Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The +lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was +both baffling and exasperating. "Oh, come, Miss Lane," he +continued, making a desperate effort to recover his patronizing +tone, "you know just what we all think of your ability." + +"What do you think of it?" Iola's tone was calmly curious. + +"Why, I think--well--I know you can do the work infinitely better +than Evelyn Redd." + +"Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard +me." + +"No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm +confident it will suit the part." + +"Thank you so much," said Iola sweetly; "I am so sorry that Dr. +Bulling should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man." + +"Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self- +esteem, "we enjoyed it." + +"How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?" + +"Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way," replied the +doctor, falling into his best professional tone. + +"And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked +that, too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it +is to have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite +saves one the trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly +needs a mind at all." Iola's face and smile were those of innocent +childhood. Dr. Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and +hastened to change the subject. + +"Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?" + +"I am really a little uncertain at present," replied Iola. + +"Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut +up, not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it +off." + +"You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?" + +"Oh, well," said the doctor, plunging wildly, "I wouldn't put it +that way. But the whole question of the Philharmonic was involved, +and this invitation was a flag of truce, as it were." + +"Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I +cannot pretend to follow the workings of your mind. But seeing +that this invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort +on the part of Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall +decline it." In spite of all she could do, Iola could not keep out +of her voice a slightly haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of +superiority was fast deserting him. "And as to the Philharmonic +solos," continued Iola, "if the directors see fit to make me an +offer of the part I shall consider it." + +"Consider it!" gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl +with her absurd pretensions were given to understand the magnitude +of the favour that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer +upon her. He became brutal. "Well, all I say is that if you know +when you are well off, you'll take this chance." + +Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. +Foxmore had not thought her so tall. Her face was a shade paler +than usual, her eyes a little wider open, but her voice was as +smooth as ever, and with just a little ring as of steel in it she +inquired, "Did you come here this morning to make this threat, Dr. +Foxmore?" + +"I came," he said bluntly, "to let you know your good fortune and +to warn you not to allow any of your friends to persuade you +against your own best interests." + +"My friends?" Iola threw her head slightly backward and her tone +became frankly haughty. + +"Oh, I know your friends, and especially--I may as well be plain-- +that young medical student, Boyle, don't like Dr. Bulling, and +might persuade you against this yacht trip." + +Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood +without speaking for a few moments till she was sure her voice was +steady. + +"My FRIENDS would never presume to interfere with my choosing." + +"Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to +interfere once too often for his own good. But he'll probably be +more careful in future." + +"Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. +He would do what he thought right." + +"He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with +Dr. Bulling again." The doctor's tone was insolently sarcastic. + +"Dr. Bulling?" + +"Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling was forced to +chastise him." + +"Chastise! Mr. Boyle!" cried Iola, her anger throwing her off her +guard. "That is quite impossible, Dr. Foxmore! That could not +happen!" + +"But I am telling you it did! I was present and saw it. It was +this way--" + +Iola put up her hand imperiously. "Dr. Foxmore," she said, +recovering her self-command, "there is no need of words. I tell +you it is quite impossible! It is quite impossible!" + +Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the +remaining shreds of decency in speech. + +"Do you mean to call me a liar?" he shouted. + +"Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me as well?" + +The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the calm, smiling +face. + +"I was a fool to come!" he blurted. + +"I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of +returning wisdom." + +The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further +words strode from the room. + +Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the +open door. "Oh!" she breathed, her hands fiercely clenched, "if I +were a man what a joy it would be just now!" She shut the door and +sat down to think. "I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at +once. He'll tell me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!" For the +first time she saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If +she sang in the Philharmonic it would be by virtue of his good +offices and by the gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. +That she had the voice for the part and that it was immeasurably +better than Evelyn Redd's counted not at all. How mean she felt! +And yet she must go on with it. She would not allow anything to +stand in the way of her success. This was the first firm stepping- +stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she would be +independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. She would go +on this yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. +Bulling, nor would she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and +angry. It looked terribly like disloyalty to him to associate +herself on terms of friendship with the man who had beaten him so +cruelly. Oh, how she hated herself! But she could not give up her +chance. She would explain to Barney how helpless she was and she +would send Dick to him. He would listen to Dick. + +Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads +making choice of a path that was to lead her far from the faith, +the ideals, the friends she now held most dear. Through all her +years she had been preparing herself for this hour of choice. With +her, to desire greatly was to bend her energies to attain. She +would deeply wound the man who loved her better than his own life; +but the moment of choice found her helpless in the grip of her +ambition. And so her choice was made. + + + +XII + +HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE + + +Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable +as when seen at a distance. The huge bulk of her, the pronouncedly +masculine dress and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its +dark mustache line on the upper lip, all of which at a distance +were calculated to overawe if not to strike terror to the heart of +the beholder, were very considerably softened by the shrewd, kindly +twinkle of the keen grey eyes which a nearer view revealed. Her +welcome of Iola was bluff and hearty, but she was much too busy +ordering her forces and disposing of her impedimenta, for she was +her own commodore, to pay particular attention in the meantime to +her guests. The wharf at which the Petrel was tied was crowded +this Saturday afternoon with various parties of excursionists +making for the steamers, ferries, yachts, and other craft that lay +along the water front. Already the Petrel had hoisted her mainsail +and, under the gentle breeze, was straining upon her shore lines +awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola stood idly gazing at the +shifting scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded on his mission to +his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with his usual +smiling assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she +noticed him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of the +wharf. Iola's eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a +man pushing his way through the crowd. It was Barney. She saw him +pause, evidently to make inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered +oath, Bulling sprang to the aft line. + +"Let go that line, Murdoff!" he shouted to the man at the bow. +"Look lively, there!" + +As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making +it imperative that Murdoff should execute his command in the +liveliest manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a +space of blue water between herself and the dock. She was not a +moment too soon, for Barney, having received his direction, was +coming at a run, scattering the crowd to right and left. As he +arrived at the dock edge he caught sight of Iola and Dr. Bulling. +He took a step backwards and made as if to attempt the spring. +Iola's cry, "Don't, Barney!" arrested Mrs. Duff Charrington's +attention. + +"What's up?" she shouted. "How's this? We're off! Bulling, what +the deuce--who gave orders?" + +Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have +said herself, completely flabbergasted. At a single glance she +took in the white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less +white. + +"What's up?" she cried again. "Have you seen a ghost, Miss Lane? +You, too, Bulling?" She glanced back at the clock. "There's +someone left behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's our +medallist, isn't it? Do you know him, Bulling? Shall we go back +for him?" + +"No, no! For Heaven's sake, no! He's a madman, quite!" + +"Pardon me, Dr. Bulling," said Iola, her voice ringing clear and +firm in contrast with Bulling's agitated tone, "he is a friend of +mine, a very dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane." As she +spoke she waved her hand to Barney, but there was no answering +sign. + +"Your friend, is he?" said Mrs. Duff Charrington. "Then doubtless +very sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane? Shall we go back for +him?" + +"No, he doesn't want me," said Iola. + +"Mrs. Charrington," said Dr. Bulling, "he has a grudge against me +because of a fancied insult." + +"Ah," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, "I understand. What do you say, +Miss Lane? We can easily go back." + +"Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola +hurriedly; "he is gone." + +"As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. +I declare he looks as if he needed bracing up. I shall take the +wheel." + +"Mrs. Charrington," said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling +disappeared down the companionway, "that was Mr. Boyle, my friend, +and I want you to think him a man of the highest honour. But he +doesn't like Dr. Bulling. He doesn't trust him." + +"My dear, my dear," said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, "don't trouble +yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! +these men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear +creatures. But they are just like ourselves, with a little more +conceit and considerably less wit. And they are not really worth +all the trouble we take for them. I must get to know your +medallist, my dear. That was a strong face and an honest face. I +have heard John rave about him. John is my young son, first year +in medicine. His judgment, I confess, is not altogether reliable-- +worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat as to that young +man's doings when they were initiating him. But I have no doubt +that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite mad about you, +and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my +arms round you as soon as possible." + +As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff +Charrington, who, with all her sporty manners and masculine ways, +was an honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart. + +"I'm glad now I came," said Iola gratefully; "I was afraid you +weren't--" She paused abruptly in confusion. + +"Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you." + +"Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was +what Dr. Bulling--" Again Iola hesitated. + +"Don't bother telling me," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, observing +her confusion. "No doubt Bulling gave you to understand that he +worked me to invite you. Confess now." There was a shrewd twinkle +in her keen grey eye. "Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, with +large possibilities of self-appreciation. But he had nothing to do +with this invitation, though he flatters himself he had. He's not +without ability, but he can't teach his grandmother to suck eggs. +I'll tell you why you are here. I pride myself upon having an eye +for a winner, and I pick you as one, and that's why you are to sing +in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a pretty voice. She is a +niece of a very dear friend, and for a time I thought she might do. +But she has no soul, no passion, and music, like a man, must have +passion. Music without passion is a crime against art. So I just +told Duff, he's chairman, you know, of the Board of Directors, that +she was impossible and that we must have you. I have heard you +sing, my dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat +and eye. You have them all. You have the voice and the +temperament and the passion. You'll be great some day, much +greater than I, and, with the hope of sharing your glory, I have +decided to put my money on you." + +Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, +but Mrs. Duff Charrington waved them aside. + +"Purely selfish," she said, "purely selfish, my dear. Now don't +let Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner, too. He has +force. He'll be a power in the country. Inclines to politics. +He's a kind of brute, of course, but he'll succeed, for he has +wealth and social prestige, neither to be sniffed at, my child. +But, especially, he has driving power. But I'll have my eye on him +this trip, so enjoy your outing." + +Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of +the finesse of diplomacy in the manipulation of her company. Her +method was straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent +attempts of Dr. Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure +Iola for a tete-a-tete, she called out across the deck in the ears +of the whole company, "See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying +to monopolise our star. We're out for a good time and we're going +to have it. Miss Lane is not your property. She belongs to us +all." Thenceforth Dr. Bulling, with what grace he could summon, +had to content himself with just so much of Iola's company as his +hostess decided he should have. + +It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a +series of sensations altogether new and delightful. As the yacht +skimmed, like a great white-winged bird, over the blue waters of +Ontario, the humming breeze, the swift rush through the parting +waves, the sense of buoyant life with which the yacht seemed to be +endowed made her blood jump. She abandoned herself to the joys of +the hour and became the life and soul of the whole party. And were +it not for Barney's haunting face, the two days' outing would have +been for Iola among the happiest experiences of her life. But +Barney's last look across the widening strip of water pursued her +and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more +terrible than rage. Iola shuddered as she recalled it. She read +in it the despair of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, +and as the end of her trip drew near her dread increased. + +Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in +the girl during the short voyage, fail to observe her uneasiness +and to guess the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at +the dock, Iola detected Barney. + +"There he is," she cried under her breath. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, "it is +not possible that you are afraid, and of a man! I would give +something to have that feeling. It is many years since a man could +inspire me with any feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. +They are really silly creatures and most helpless. Let me manage +him. Introduce him to me and leave him alone." + +Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more +than justified. Through the crowd and straight for Iola came +Barney, his face haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever +manoeuvre Mrs. Duff Charrington swung her massive form fair in his +path and, turning suddenly, faced him squarely. Iola seized the +moment to present him. Barney made as if to brush her aside, but +Mrs. Duff Charrington was not of the kind to be lightly brushed +aside by anyone, much less by a young man of Barney's inexperience. + +"Ah, young man," she exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before." +The strong grip of her hand and the loud tone of her voice at once +arrested his progress and commanded his attention. "I saw you get +your medal the other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave +about you--John Charrington, you know, medical student, first year. +He is something of a fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of course, +won't have noticed him." + +Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen +grey eyes compelling his attention, then, with an effort, he +collected his wits. + +"Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. +Don't see much of him." + +"No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The dissecting- +room wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's straight-going, +however, but he can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he +changes considerably, the Lord pity his patients." She became +aware of a sudden hardening in Barney's face and a quick flash in +his eye. Without turning her head she knew that Dr. Bulling was +approaching Iola from the other side. She put her hand on Barney's +arm. "Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane to my carriage there? +Bulling," she said, turning sharply upon the doctor, "will you help +Daisy to collect my stuff? I am sure things will be left on the +yacht. There are always some things left. Servants are so +stupid." There was that in her voice that made Bulling stand +sharply at attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he +was leading Iola and Mrs. Duff Charrington to the waiting carriage. + +"So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we +would have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle," said Mrs. Duff +Charrington as he closed the carriage door. + +"I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in +with some of your party." There was war in Barney's tone. + +"Good Heavens, young man!" cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no way +disturbed, "you don't expect to make the world fit in with you or +you with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. +But you will be glad to know that Miss Lane has made us all have a +very happy little holiday." + +"Of that I am sure," cried Barney gravely. + +"And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good time." + +"It is for that some of us have lived." Barney's deep voice, +thrilling with sad and tender feeling, brought the quick tears to +Iola's eyes. To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. +Even Mrs. Duff Charrington was touched. She leaned over the +carriage door toward him. + +"Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane home to dinner. Come with us." + +Barney felt the kindly tone. "Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it +would give none of us pleasure, and I have much to do. I am +leaving to-morrow for Baltimore." + +Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced +at her white face. + +"Young man," she said sternly, leaning out toward him and looking +Barney in the eyes, "don't be a fool. The man that would, from +pique, willingly hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward." + +"Mrs. Charrington," replied Barney in a steady voice, "I have just +come from an operation by which a little girl, an only child, has +lost her arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, +but from love. It is because it is best, that I go to-morrow. +Good-bye." Then turning to Iola he said, "I shall see you to- +night." He lifted his hat and turned away." + +"Drive home, Smith," said Mrs. Charrington sharply; "the others +will find their way." + +"Take me home," whispered Iola, with dry lips. + +"Do you love him?" said Mrs. Duff Charrington, taking the girl's +hand in hers. + +"Ah, yes. I never knew how much." + +"Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far +and he is only a man." Mrs. Duff Charrington's tone did not +indicate a high opinion of the masculine section of humanity. +"You'll just come with me for dinner and then I shall send you +home. Thank God, we can still eat." + +For some minutes they drove along in silence. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her thought, +"that's a man for you--thinks the whole world moves round the axis +of his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still," she +mused, "a man isn't everything, although once I--but never mind, +there is always a way of bringing them to time." + +"You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington," said Iola; "nothing can +ever change him." + +"Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the +less it is sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the trouble?" + +"No, I think not," said Iola softly. + +"Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for +words. If ever you wish to come to me I shall be ready. Now let +us dismiss the thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts +hinder digestion, I have found, and nothing is quite worth that." + +With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during +the drive and throughout the dinner hour and, indeed, until the +moment of her departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her +anxious thoughts, but with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she +succeeded in keeping them deep in her heart under guard. + +As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night she whispered: + +"Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle anything. Give time +a chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old party." + +And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon +the advice which suited so thoroughly her own habit of mind. That +Barney had made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She +would set herself to gain time, and yet she was fearful of the +issue of the interview before her. The fear and anxiety which she +had been holding down for the last two hours came over her in +floods. As she thought of Barney's last words she found herself +searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which to brace her +strength. If he had only been angry! But that sad, tender +solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of +himself, she knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her. + +A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not +the big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before +she reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting +for her. As she entered he arose and stood silent. + +"Barney!" she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no +reply. + +"Oh, Barney!" she cried again, her voice quivering, "won't you tell +me to come?" + +"Come," he said, holding out his arms. + +With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms +about his neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her +fast, gently caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful +hair till she grew quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her +with grave tenderness and put her away from him. + +"Go and take off your wet things first," he said. + +"Say you forgive me, Barney," she whispered, putting her arms again +about his neck. + +"That's not the word," he replied sadly; "there's nothing to +forgive. Go, now!" + +She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If +she could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold +him, and, what was far more important, she could conquer herself, +for great as she knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the +hold her ambition had upon her and she dreaded lest that influence +should become dominant in this hour. She knew well their souls +would reach each other's secrets, and according to that reading the +issue would be. + +"I will keep him! I will keep him!" she whispered to herself as +she tore off her wet clothing. "What shall I put on?" She could +afford to lose no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose +her simplest gown, a soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, +and made so as to show the superb modelling of her perfect body, +leaving her arms bare to the elbow and falling away at the neck to +reveal the soft, full curves where they flowed down to the swell of +her bosom. She shook down her hair and gathered it loosely in a +knot, leaving it as the wind and rain had tossed it into a +bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One glance she +threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The dead +ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her cheeks, the +lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the +night-black masses of her hair--this, and that indescribable but +all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass. + +"Ah, God help me!" she cried, clasping her hands high above her +head, and went forth. + +These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain +the mastery over the surging passion that was sweeping like a +tempest through his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; +but as his eyes fell upon her standing in the soft rose-shaded +light of the room, her attitude of mute appeal, the rare, rich +loveliness of her face and form again swept away all the barriers +of his control. She took one step toward him. With a swift +movement he covered his face with his hands and sank to his chair. + +"O God! O God! O God!" he groaned. "And must I lose her!" + +"Why lose me, Barney?" she said, gliding swiftly to him and +dropping to her knees beside him. "Why lose me?" she repeated, +taking his head to her heaving bosom. + +The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his +manhood. Not for himself must he think now, but for her. The +touch of self makes weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that +he was giving up his life in that hour if only she were helped? He +rose, lifted her from her knees, set her in a chair, and went back +to his place. + +"Barney, let me come to you," she pleaded. "I'm sorry I went--" + +"No," he said, his voice quiet and steady, "you must stay there. +You must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must." + +"Barney," she cried again, "let me explain." + +"Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These +people are nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It +matters not at all that you went with them. I am not angry. +I was at first insane, I think. But that is all past now." + +"What is it, Barney?" she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and +despair in the even, quiet tone. + +"It is this," he replied; "we have come to the end. I must not +hold you any more. For two years I have known. I had not the +courage to face it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me +these last two days." + +"Courage, Barney?" + +"Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what +a man must do. And I must think for you. Our lives are already +far apart and I must not keep you longer." + +"Oh, Barney!" cried Iola, her voice breaking, "let me come to you! +How can I listen to you saying such terrible things without your +arms about me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!" + +The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince +as from a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if estimating his +strength. Dare he trust himself? It would make the task +infinitely harder to have her near him, to feel the touch of her +hands, the pressure of her body. But he would save her pain. He +would help her through this hour of agony. How great it was he +could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat down beside her, +and took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, she let +herself sink down, with muscles relaxed and eyes closed. + +"Now go on, dear," she whispered. + +"Poor girl! Poor girl!" said Barney, "we have made a great +mistake, you and I. I was not made for you nor you for me." + +"Why not?" she whispered. + +"Listen to me, darling. Do I love you?" + +"Yes," she answered softly. + +"With all my heart and soul?" + +"Yes, dear," she answered again. + +"Better than my own life?" + +"Yes, Barney. Oh, yes," she replied with a little sob in her +voice. + +"Now we will speak simple truth to each other," said Barney in a +tone solemn as if in prayer, "the truth as in God's sight." + +She hesitated. "Oh, Barney!" she cried piteously, "must I say all +the truth?" + +"We must, darling. You promise?" + +"Oh-h-h! Yes, I promise." She flung her arms upward about his +neck. "I know what you will ask." + +"Listen to me, darling," he said again, taking down her arms, "this +is what I would say. You have marked out your life. You will +follow your great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you +feel you must go. You love me and you would be my wife, make my +home, mother my children if God should send them to us; but both +these things you cannot do, and meantime you have chosen your great +career. Is not this true?" + +"I can't give you up, Barney!" she moaned. + +To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney +should give up his life's work to accompany her in the path she had +marked. Equally to both this would have seemed unworthy of him. + +"Is not this true, Iola?" Barney's voice, in spite of him, grew a +little stern. And though she knew it was at the cost of life she +could not deny it. + +"God gave me the voice, Barney," she whispered. + +"Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your +great art. So it is better that there should be no bond between +us." He paused a moment as if to gather his strength together for +a supreme effort. "Iola, when you were a girl I bound you to me. +Now you are a woman, I set you free. I love you, but you are not +mine. You are your own." + +Convulsively she clung to him moaning, "No, no, Barney!" + +"It is the only way." + +"No, not to-night, Barney!" + +"Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an +appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your +life will be full again of other people and other things." He +hurried his words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and +so turn her mind from her present pain. "Your Philharmonic will +bring you fame. That means engagements, great masters, and then +you will belong to the great world." How clearly he had read her +mind and how closely he had followed the path she herself had +outlined for her feet! He paused, as if to take breath, then +hurried on again as through a task. "And we will all be proud of +you and rejoice in your success and in your--your--your--happiness." +The voice that had gone so bravely and so relentlessly through the +terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, but only for an +instant. He must think of her. "Dick will he here," he went on, +"and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me, it +is the best, Iola, and you will say it some day." + +Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, "No, Barney, you +are not helping me to my best." + +In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had +no answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage. + +"And who," she cried, "will help me up and take care of me?" + +Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard +her against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their +lusts upon beauty and innocence? And who would help her against +herself? The desire to hold her for himself and for her sprang up +fierce within him. Could he desert her, leave her to fight her +fights, to find her way through the world's treacherous paths +alone? That was the part of his renunciation that had been the +heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her danger. Not his +loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything. All the +great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight +behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe. + +"Could you, Iola," he cried hoarsely, "don't you think you could +let me care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right to +guard you? I can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you +come?" + +Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, +he poured forth his soul's desire for her. To work for her, to +suffer for her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her +and to keep her only for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of +his mighty passion, he poured forth his words, pleading as for his +life. By an inexplicable psychic law the exhibition of his passion +calmed hers. The sight of his weakness brought her strength. For +one fleeting moment she allowed her mind to rest upon the picture +his words made of a home, made rich with the love of a strong man, +and sweet with the music of children's voices, where she would be +safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But only for a +moment. Swifter than the play of light there flashed before her +another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, +eager, rapt, listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, +swaying, compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed +muscles tone up into firmness. The force of her ambition was being +transmitted along those subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and +mind and body into one complex whole, into the very sinews and +muscles of her frame. She had hold of herself again. She would +set herself to gain time. + +"Let us wait, Barney," she said, "let us take time." + +An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. +What a weak fool he had been and how he had been thinking of +himself! He sat up, straight and strong, his own man again. + +"Forgive me, darling," he said, a faint, wan smile flitting across +his face. "I was weak and selfish. I allowed myself to think for +a moment that it might be, but now I know we must say good-bye to- +night." + +"Good-bye?" The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was so +stubborn. "Surely, Barney, it is unreasonable to ask me to decide +at once to-night." + +He rose to his feet and lifted her gently. + +"You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and +it lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly away." His voice was +toneless, passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had +left him exhausted. His apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. +It was a supreme moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan +her soul's fires into flame. He was tearing up the roots of his +love out of her life, but there was no acute sense of laceration. +The inevitable had come to pass. A silence, dense and throbbing, +fell upon them. Outside the storm was lashing the wet leaves +against the window. + +"If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will +bring me. I shall be waiting, waiting. Remember that, always +waiting." He tightened his arms about her and without passion, but +gravely, tenderly he lifted her face. "Good-bye, my love," he +said, and kissed her lips. "My heart's love!" Once more he kissed +her. "My life! My love!" + +She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but +for the eyes that held his fast and for the lips that gave him back +his kisses. Gently he placed her on the couch. + +"God keep you, darling," he whispered, bending over her and +touching her dusky hair with his lips. + +He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a +heavy load, her eyes following his every step, and reached the +door. There he paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the +door, halted yet an instant, but without turning he passed out of +her sight. + +An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney +had left her, dazed and tearless. + +"He is gone," she said dully. + +Margaret turned upon her. "Gone? Yes. I have just seen him." + +"And I love him," continued Iola, looking up at her with heavy +eyes. + +"Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for +your paltry, selfish ambition you send from you a man whose shoes +you are not worthy to tie!" + +"Oh, Margaret!" cried Iola piteously. + +"Don't talk to me!" she replied, her lip quivering. "I can't bear +to look at you!" and she passed into her room. + +It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded +lightly the love she herself would have died to gain. But long +after Iola had sobbed herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay +wakeful for her own pain and for that of the man she loved better +than her life. + +But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret +would not have it. + +"Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give +him pain. Do you want him to despise you and me to hate you?" + +But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff +Charrington who fortunately intervened and carried Iola off with +her to spend the afternoon and evening. + +"Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. +Bring your guitar with you." + +Iola demurred. + +"I don't feel like it." + +"Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, +but remember this, the men don't like stale beer." + +This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and +lay aside the role she had unconsciously planned to adopt, so that +even Mrs. Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling +animation of her protegee. + +But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull +out that night there was only dreary, voiceless misery. There was +no pretence at anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of +parting would be the end of all that had been so delightful in +their old life. The days of their long companionship were over, +and to both the thought brought grief that made words impossible. +Only Margaret's presence forced them to self-control. As to +Margaret, Dick alone knew the full measure of her grief, and her +quiet, serene courage filled him with amazed admiration. At length +came the call of the bustling, businesslike conductor, "All +aboard!" + +"Good-bye, Margaret," said Barney simply, holding out his hand. +But the girl quietly put back her veil and lifted up her face to +him, her brave blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her +lips only said, "Good-bye, Barney." + +"Good-bye, dear Margaret," he said again, bending over her and +kissing her. + +"Me, too, Barney," said Dick, his tears openly streaming down his +face. "I'm a confounded baby! But hanged if I care!" + +At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery vanished. He +threw his arms about his brother's neck, crying "Good-bye, Dick, +old man. We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, +it's all come to an end!" + +Already the train was moving. + +"Go, old chap," cried Dick, pushing him away but still clinging to +him. And then, as Barney swung on to the step he called back to +them what had long been in his heart to say. + +"Look after her, will you?" + +"Yes, Barney, we will," they both cried together. And as they +stood gazing through dimming tears after the train as it sped out +through the network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, +they felt that a new bond drew them closer than before. And it was +the tightening of that bond that brought them all the comfort that +there was in that hour of misery unspeakable. + + + +XIII + +A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT + + +The college year had come to an end. The results of the +examinations had been published. The Juniors were preparing to +depart for their summer work in the mission field. Of the +graduating class, some were waiting with calm confidence the +indications of the will of Providence as to their spheres of +labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by certain letters in +their possession from leading members of influential congregations. +Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to tread the +weary and humiliating "trail of the black bag," while others again, +to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant +battle, were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life +and work in the great West, or in the far lands across the sea. + +Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the +Presbytery examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student +party. The annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event +of nerve-racking uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely +perfunctory performance of the most innocuous kind. On the other +hand, it might develop features of a most sensational and perilous +nature. The college barometer this year was unusually depressed, +for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery examination was to +be of the more serious type. It was a time of searchings of heart +for those who had been giving, throughout the session, undue +attention to the social opportunities afforded by college life, and +more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the archaic +and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these latter +gentlemen the day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning +devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, +failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises +are supposed to afford. For their slender ray of hope that their +memory of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial +was very materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment +they might assign a perfectly correct English version to the wrong +Hebrew text. The result of such mischance they would not allow +themselves to contemplate. On the other hand, however, there was +the welcome possibility that they might be so able to dispose +themselves among the orientalists in their class that a word dropped +at a critical moment might save them from this mischance. And there +was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground of confidence, +that the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of the +ever-present possibility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely +jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of +oriental literature. Of course, the examination would also include +other departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and +duty of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the +faith of the candidates before them. On this score, however, few +indulged serious anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were +safely passed, both examiner and examined could disport themselves +with a jaunty self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with +the Shorter Catechism received during the plastic years of +childhood. + +It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for +Boyle. On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. +Boyle was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially +of the "sinners" among them, not simply by reason of his prowess +between the goal posts where, times without number, he had rescued +the college from the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for +the modesty with which he carried off his brilliant attainments in +the class lists. Throughout the term, in the college halls after +tea, there had been carried on a series of discussions extending +over the whole range of the "fundamentals," and Boyle had the +misfortune to rouse the wrath and awaken the concern of Finlay +Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, +broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, a dialectician +by training, and a man of war by the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully +would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given his body to the +flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the heretical +dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly +surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of +fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to +find, in a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe haven +where he might devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of +his faith within the citadel of orthodoxy was rudely shattered by +the discovery that the same heresies which had driven him from New +College had found their way across the sea and were being +championed by a man of such winning personality and undoubted +scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind of +these discussions carried on throughout the term was such that, +after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice to the +person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty to +inform the professor in whose department these subjects lay of the +heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, +indeed, of the Canadian Church. + +The report of his interview with the professor came back to college +through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the +professor's son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely +course toward a medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college +hall he was immediately surrounded by an eager crowd, the most +eager of whom was Robert Duff, the sworn ally of Mr. Finlayson. + +"Did Finlayson see your father?" inquired Mr. Duff anxiously. + +"Sure thing," answered Tom. + +"And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?" + +"You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!" + +"And what did the professor say?" inquired Mr. Duff, with bated +breath. + +"Told him to go to the devil." + +"To what?" gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that +the foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been +removed. It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of +the "sinners" had subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the +spirit only, and not the ipsissima verba, of the devout and +reverent professor, that had been translated in the vigorous +vernacular of his son. + +Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical +tendencies had reached other ears than those of the sane and +liberal-minded professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid +churchman, the Rev. Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. +Columba's. Not through Finlayson, however, be it understood, did +this report reach him. That staunch defender of orthodoxy might, +under stress of conscience, find it his duty to inform the proper +authority of the matter, but sooner than retail gossip to the hurt +of his fellow-student he would have cut off his big, bony right +hand. + +The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, +which gained for him the cognomen of "Squeaky Sandy," and a most +irritatingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates +and examiners were disporting themselves in the calm waters of +Systematic Theology, fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the +temporary withholding of his license. It was impossible but that +in the college itself, and in the college circles of society, this +event should become a subject of much heated discussion. + +Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student +parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was +undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor +with his students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge +of human nature generally and of student nature particularly, on +the part of that gentle lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. +Macdougall was of the old school, with very beautiful if very old- +fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was one poetic +setting forth of the manners and deportment proper to ladies, both +young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit and kindly +heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The +consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of +the backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was +furnished with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and +arranged with cosey nooks and corners calculated to gratify the +luxurious tastes and lazy manners of a decadent generation. Her +shrewd wit was further discovered in the care she took to assemble +to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, wickedest of the +young girls in the wide circle of her friends. As young Robert +Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, "There were no last roses +in her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took pains to +instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young men +of the college. + +"You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would explain, "to make +the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something +to distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their +studies." + +And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw +themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the +saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their +lectures in absentia for at least two days in order that they might +recover from the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall +party. + +Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, +but even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. +Macdougall's college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The +absorbing theme of conversation, carried on in a strictly +confidential manner, was the sensational feature of the Presbytery +examination. The professor himself was deeply grieved, and no less +so his stately little lady, for to both of them Dick was as a son. +But from neither of them could Margaret extract anything but the +most meagre outline of what had happened. For full details of the +whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd, second year +theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face and fresh +innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of "Baby Kidd," or +more shortly, "Kiddie." + +"Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with +a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly +acquiesced. + +"Well, I'll tell you," he said, adopting a low confidential tone. +"I could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out +after Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay +low till everything was lovely and they were falling on each +others' necks over the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow +is supposed to be quite safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, +'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly state what you consider the correct +theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't +got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You believe in the doctrine, +I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart stopped till he went +on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is that, sir? If you +believe in it you must have a theory. What do you believe about +it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have no +theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. +Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it." + +"Who was it?" inquired Miss Belle. + +"Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. +Pre-mill, too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that +snag. But old Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went +after Boyle on every doctrine in the catalogue where it was +possible for a man to get off the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, +the Mosaic Authorship, and the whole Robertson Smith business. You +know that last big heresy hunt in Scotland." + +"No," said Miss Belle, "I don't know. And you don't, either, so +you needn't stop and try to tell us." + +"I don't, eh?" said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep +himself in a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances +of Miss Belle's black eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, +I couldn't make you understand." + +"Hear him!" said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. "Go on. We are +interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?" + +"Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it +seemed to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of +the brethren interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young +man after their kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This +is most serious, Mr. Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the +most searching investigation! We all know what is going on in the +Old Land, how the great doctrines of our faith are being undermined +by so-called scholarship, which is nothing less than blasphemy and +impudent scepticism.' And so he went on shrieking more and more +wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet to come. All at +once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to take Boyle +on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' +stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' +'Are you a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I +saw his head go back for the first time. Before this he had been +sitting like a convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning +square around and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total +abstinence.' Don't suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did +you ever attend the theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to +strike the brethren all at once what the old inquisitor was driving +at. The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a weird +sound, a cross between a howl and a roar, and Grant was at the +Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery to me how he got +there. There were three pews between him and the desk, and I swear +he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, I protest', he +shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a regular +sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from +Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, +when he could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all +know what Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But +let me tell Mr. Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was +going to tell him, for the next few moments they mixed it up good +and hot. Say! it was a circus with all the monkeys loose and the +band playing seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had +his say and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full disquisition of +his own theology, and when he was done my pity was transferred from +Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was +a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And I believe the whole +Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how slight, by +contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then +Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with +the result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's +where he is now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for +journalism. The Telegraph wants him." + +"Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the +dark-faced old lady up in the country who was counting the days +till her son should be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. + +"Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll shine. See what he's +done with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a +row at the college!" continued Kiddie. "Old Father Finlayson +there," nodding across the room at the Highlander, who was engaged +in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with +his hostess, "orthodox old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a +raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he has been at war with +Boyle all winter on every and all possible themes. But he fights +fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much for him. He was +raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle came in. +'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by the +hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most +iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy +whatever with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had +Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his +socks, will you!" + +The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed +horror the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet +slippers adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a +startling contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in +colour, which his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the +Arctic regions of Canada. + +"You may laugh," continued Bob. "So would I yesterday. But, by +Jingo! he can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! +He's all white, and he has the heart of a gentleman!" Little +Kidd's voice went shaky and his eyes had the curious shine that +appeared in them only in moments of deepest excitement, but if he +had only known it, he had never been so near storming the gate of +Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She showed her sympathy with +Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life," +as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed, did she devote +herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and good cheer +that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to inform +her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was to +"come out to him as soon as he was placed." He was surprised, but +entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no +difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper +hour, however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, +yielded her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving +Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life." But not a word could she +extract from him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that +might have made a Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her +leading questions with a density of ignorance unparalleled in her +experience, until she let it be known that Dick was an old +schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. Finlayson poured forth the +grief and rage swelling in his big heart at the treatment his enemy +had received and his anxious concern for his future both here and +hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, Margaret shared. +And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, during the walk +home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he had fled and +the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's mind, +her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the +opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true +from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, +did she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman +carried back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its +burden, but withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental +grasp of the young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he +dwell upon this theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean +set herself devoutly to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be +placed, or that the professors might cease giving parties. + +The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears +it. For if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, +it will only increase his vanity and render his return to sure and +safe paths more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and +a horror of darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from +his fellows, and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness +unless, perchance, he light upon a friend who gives him love and +trust unstinted and links him to wholesome living. After all, in +matters of faith every man must blaze his own path through the woods +and make his own clearing in which to dwell. And he may well thank +God if his path lead him some whither where there is space enough to +work his day's work and light enough to live by. + +With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a +friend who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel +himself to be quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours +there stood at his side Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery +good sense and whose loyalty to right-doing helped him and +strengthened him and so made it possible to wait till the better +day dawned. + + + +XIV + +WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN + + +The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, +and its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges +and upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide +outlooks and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of +clear vision. Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands +dwell men among the immortals to whom has come the "vision +splendid" and whose are the voices that in the crisis of a man or +of a nation give forth the call that turns the face upward to life +eternal and divine. To these men such words as Duty, Honour, +Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a +man's while to seek and, having found, to die for. + +Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. +But there these same words often become mere implements of +cultivation, tools for mechanical industries or currency for the +conduct of business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as +they love to call themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the +glare of opportunism. + +And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the +sewers of politics and business and social life pour forth their +fetid filth. Here the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. +In this ooze and slime puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers +of the world's garbage, from whose collected stores the editor +selects his daily mess for the delectation of the great unwashed, +whether of the classes or of the masses, and from which he grabs in +large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and stings where it +sticks. + +The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric +type that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things +were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and +mud was mud, and nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The +highest paid official on its staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated +in the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and everybody read it. +After a season, having thus firmly established itself in the +enmities of the community, and having become, in consequence, +financially secure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, where +the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as +well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study +euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud +alluvial deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in +the business of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself +with most vehement energy to the business of moral reform. All +indecencies that could not successfully cover themselves with such +gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up to +public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to +be respected and feared. + +It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily +Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted +for the part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological +student and, therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. +His university training guaranteed his literary sense, and his +connection with the University and College papers had revealed him +a master of terse English. He was the very man, indeed, but he +must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he +toiled amid much slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, +gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the golden +coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which +had formerly made his life, to himself and to others, a joy and +beauty. For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the +smells he must become so familiar that they no longer offended. +That delicate discrimination that immediately detects the presence +of decay departed from him, and in its place there developed a +coarser sense whose characteristic was its power to distinguish +between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, came to +consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. On +the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from +those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those +high souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance. + +"We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs. +Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone +lest she should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. +"But I doubt not he is very busy with his new duties." + +"Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her +voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was +cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that +yearns over the broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, +and makes their pain its own. + +"Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the +little lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice +betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. + +But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick +for an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of +the professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but +more often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him +there had grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret +regarded with distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her +suspicions! How she fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! +But how persistently they made entrance and to abide. + +The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of +gleaming sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped +by shining waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, +careless of all save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming +sands out of which they build their sand castles with such +concentrated eagerness and such painful industry. At other times +there come tempests, sudden and out of clear skies, which sweep, +with ruthless besom, castles and castle-builders alike, and leave +desolation and empty spaces for a time. + +A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at +times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring +some new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all +other without remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered +herself, giving freely her great voice and her superb body, now +developed into the full splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. +And how they gathered about her and gave her unstinted their +flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the very soul-stuff +in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the shrine of that heavenlike +and heaven-given instrument wherewith she could tickle their +senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and hatreds, +such among them as were female, and of their lusts and despairs +such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh curves +and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she +revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal, +maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that +wrought destruction among men and fury among women. + +To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her +courts, Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as +that her preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked +the ardour of her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, +her good friend, but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and +girl friendship was established an intimacy which seemed to render +unnecessary those conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but +which, as the wise old world has proved, man and woman with the +dread potencies of passion slumbering within them cannot afford to +despise. By their mutual tastes, as by their habits of life, Iola +and Dick were brought into daily association. Under Dick's +guidance she read and studied the masters of the English drama. +For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present +devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. Together +they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's +connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by +which society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown +together. Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the +influence Iola had upon him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle +potency that exhaled from her physical charms affected him like +draughts of wine. Away from her presence he marvelled at himself +and scorned his weakness; but once within sound of her voice, +within touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The mystery +of the body, its subtle appeal, its terrible potency, allured and +enslaved him. Against this infatuation of Dick's, Margaret felt +herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's love for her had not +changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing intensity that +made his presence painful to her at times. This very love of his +closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile keeping +such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome +fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life +devoted to well doing. + +Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And +something did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had +gone out of Iola's life in so tragic a way. Through all the months +of the year he had waited, longing and hoping for the word that +might recall him to her, until suspense became unbearable even for +his strong soul. Hence it was that Iola received from him a letter +breathing of love so deep, so tender, and withal so humble, that +even across the space that these months had put between Barney and +herself, Iola was profoundly stirred and sorely put to it to decide +upon her answer. She took the letter to Margaret and read her such +parts as she thought necessary. "A year has gone. It seems like +ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. Looking back +upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been severe. +If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, +shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had +hoped a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample +salary, or an assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have +discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond my power to +control. In spite of all that my work is to me, I find myself +looking, not into the book before me, but into your eyes--I may be +able to live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't see +how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait even a few +days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me to +come." + +"How can I answer a letter like that?" said Iola to Margaret. + +"How?" exclaimed Margaret. "Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to +him. Anything to get him to you." + +Iola mused a while. "He wants me to marry him and to keep his +house." + +"Yes," said Margaret, "he does." + +"Housekeeping and babies, ugh!" shuddered Iola. + +"Yes," cried Margaret, "ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and +Barney! God pity your poor soul!" + +Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion. + +"What do you mean?" she cried. "Why do you speak so?" + +"Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in +your woman's heart?" + +From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the +two was growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter +to Dick. They were to go that evening to the play and after the +play there would be supper. And when he had taken her home she +would show him the letter. + +On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, +he suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the +office. + +"Let us run in for a moment," he said. + +"I think I had better wait you here," replied Iola. + +"Nonsense!" cried Dick. "Don't be a baby. Come in." + +Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and +drew forth Barney's letter. + +"Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she read over such +portions of Barney's letter as she thought necessary. + +"Well?" she said, as Dick remained silent. + +"Well," replied Dick, "what's your answer to be?" + +"You know what he means," said Iola a little impatiently. "He +wants me to marry him at once and to settle down." + +"Well," said Dick, "why not?" + +"Now, Dick," cried Iola, "do you think I am suited for that kind of +life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a house +tidy, the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the +long, quiet evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among +his patients while I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, +and the great world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I +love Barney. But I must have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!" + +"Forgotten?" cried Dick. "Why should you be forgotten? Barney's +wife could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. And, +after all," added Dick, in a musing tone, "to live with Barney +ought to be good enough for any woman." + +"Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!" she cried, making a little moue. +"You are quite irresistible!" she added, leaning toward him with a +mocking laugh. + +"Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical +charm. "We must get away." + +"But you haven't helped me, Dick," she cried, drawing nearer to him +and laying her hand upon his arm. + +The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her +face and form intoxicated him. + +He knew he was losing control of himself. + +"Come, Iola," he said, "let us go." + +"Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling into his face and +leaning toward him. + +"How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, springing up. "I +only know you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a +devil! What has come over you, or is it me, that you should affect +me so? Do you know," he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, +his breath coming hard and fast, "I can hardly keep my hands off +you. We must go. I must go. Come!" + +"Poor child," mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, "is it +afraid it will get hurt?" + +"Stop it, Iola!" cried Dick. "Come on!" + +"Come," she mocked, still leaning toward him. + +Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down +upon her mocking face. "Kiss me!" he commanded. + +Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, +drawing him steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, +passionate lure of her lustrous eyes. + +"Kiss me!" he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him +still with her gaze. + +"God in heaven!" cried Dick. "Go away!" He made to push her from +him. She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to sink in +his arms with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed +her to him, and again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell +upon her face. + +Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing +through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not +the opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the +room. For a single moment he stood stricken with horror as if +gazing upon death itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a +chair. Terror-smitten, the two sprang apart and stood with guilt +and shame stamped upon their ghastly faces. + +"Barney!" they cried together. + +Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." The words seemed to +come from some far distance. "I couldn't wait. I came for my +answer, Iola. I thought I could persuade you better. I have it +now. I have lost you! And"--here he turned to Dick--"oh, my God! +My God! I have lost my brother, too!" he turned to depart from +him. + +"Barney," cried Dick passionately, "there was no wrong! There was +nothing beyond what you saw!" + +"Was that all?" inquired his brother quietly. + +"As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!" + +Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side +table, and picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves +rapidly and handed it to his brother with his finger upon a verse. + +"Read!" he said. "You know your Bible. Read!" His voice was +terrible and compelling in its calmness. + +Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that +seemed to sear his eyeballs as he read, "Whosoever looketh on a +woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already +in his heart." Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word. + +"I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible voice. "But what +need? To me you are already dead." + +When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he +sank into a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him +stood Iola, pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a +horrid vision. She was the first to recover. + +"Dick," she said softly, laying her hand upon his head. + +He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot iron and had burned +to the bone. + +"Don't touch me!" he cried in vehement frenzy. "You are a devil! +And I am in hell! In hell! do you hear?" He caught her by the arm +and shook her. "And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no +hell?" He turned again to her. "And for you, for this, and this, +and this," touching her hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with +his finger, "I have lost my brother--my brother--my own brother-- +Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned! Damned! Damned!" + +She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, "Oh, Dick, +spare me! Take me home!" + +"Yes, yes," he cried in mad haste, "anywhere, in the devil's name! +Come! Come!" He seized her wrap, threw it upon her shoulders, +caught up his hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her +out. + +"Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?" And out of +the embers of his passion there kindled a fire that night that +burned with unquenchable fury for many a day. + + + +XV + +THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS + + +The Superintendent was spending the precious hours of one of his +rare visits at home in painful plodding through his correspondence. +For it was part of the sacrifice his work demanded, and which he +cheerfully made, that he should forsake home and wife and children +for his work's sake. The Assembly's Convener found him in the +midst of an orderly confusion of papers of different sorts. + +"How do you do, sir?" The Superintendent's voice had a fine burr +about it that gripped the ear, and his hand a vigour and tenacity +of hold that gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's +Convener and nearly brought the little man to the floor. "Sit +down, sir, and listen to this. Here are some of the compensations +that go with the Superintendent's office. This is rich. It comes +from my friend, Henry Fink, of the Columbia Forks in the Windermere +Valley. British Columbia, you understand," noticing the Convener's +puzzled expression. "I visited the valley a year ago and found a +truly deplorable condition of things. Men had gone up there many +years ago and settled down remote from civilization. Some of them +married Indian wives and others of them ought to have married them, +and they have brought up families in the atmosphere and beliefs of +the pagans. Would you believe it, I fell in with a young man on +the trail, twenty years of age, who had never heard the name of our +Saviour except in oaths? He had never heard the story of the +Cross. And there are many others like him. At the Columbia Forks +the only institution that stands for things intellectual is a +Freethinkers' Club, the president of which is a retired colonel of +the British Army, a man of fine manners, of some degree of +intelligence and reading, but, I have reason to believe, of bad +life. His is the dominant influence in the community if we except +my friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known locally, 'Hank Fink.' +Hank is a character, I assure you. A Yankee from the Eastern +States, the son of a Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs a +store which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, and +miners with the necessaries of life, and keeps a stopping place. +Is postmaster, too. In fact, Hank is pretty much the whole +village. He has lived in that country some fifteen years. Has a +good Canadian wife, and a flock of small children. He is a rara +avis in that country from the fact that he hates whiskey. He hates +it almost as much as he does Colonel Hicks and his Freethinking +Club. When I visited the village, for some reason or other Hank +took me up, the Scotch blood in him possibly recognising kinship. +He gave me his store to preach in, took me all about the country, +and in a week had a mission organized on a sound financial basis. +His methods were very simple, very direct, and very effective. He +estimated the amount each man should pay and announced this fact to +the man, who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply into +Hank's motives, but it seemed to give him considerable satisfaction +to learn that Colonel Hicks was filled with indignant and scornful +rage at the proposal to establish a Christian mission in that +remote valley. It grieved the Colonel to think that after so many +years of immunity they should at last be called upon to tolerate +this particularly offensive appendage to an effete civilization. I +noticed that Hank's English always broke down in referring to the +Colonel. Well, we sent in Finlayson a year ago this spring, you +remember. Strong man, good preacher, conscientious fellow. +Thought he would do great work. You know Finlayson? Well, this is +the result." Here he picked up Hank's letter. "This would hardly +do for the Home Mission report," continued the Superintendent, with +a twinkle in his keen grey eyes: + + +"COLUMBIA FORKS, WINDERMERE, B. C. + +"DEAR SIR:--I take my pen to write you a few lines to let you know +how things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you this station is +goin' to the devil. [Judging from what I saw of the place, it +hadn't far to go.] Your preacher ain't worth a cuss. I don't say +he ain't good fer some people, but he ain't our style. [Mr. +Finlayson would doubtless agree with that.] He means well, but he +ain't eddicated up to the West. You remember how we got the boys +all corralled up nice an' tame when you was here. Well, he's got +'em wild. Couldn't reach 'em with a shotgun. He throwed hell fire +at 'em till they got scart an' took to the hills till you can't get +near 'em no more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit comin'--I +don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come, anyway--except me an' +Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can always count on the +dog. Now, sir, this is your show, not mine. But I was born an' +raised a Presbyteryn down East, an' though I haven't worked hard at +the business for some years, it riles me some to hear Col. Hicks +an' a lot of durned fools that has got smarter than God Almighty +Himself shootin' off against the Bible an' religion an' all that. +[We needn't read too closely between the lines at this point.] +Send a man that don't smell so strong of sulphur an' brimstone, who +has got some savey, an' who will know how to handle the boys +gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a leetle wild. Send him +along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar out of that +bunch of fools. + +"Yours most respeckfully, + +"HENRY FINK. + +"P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you could +arrange to spend a month or two I'll guarantee we will have 'em all +in nice shape. + +"Yours respeckfully, + +"HENRY FINK." + + +"I don't think you can count much from the support of a man like +that," said the assembly's Convener; "I don't think he shows any +real interest in the work." + +"My dear sir," said the Superintendent, "don't you know he is the +Chairman of our Board of Management, a most regular attendant upon +ordinances and contributes most liberally to our support? And +while these things in the East wouldn't necessarily indicate a +change of heart, they stand for a good deal west of the Great +Divide. And, at any rate, in these matters we remember gratefully +the word that is written, 'He that is not against us is on our +part.'" + +"Well, well," said the Assembly's Convener, "it may be so. It may +be so. But what's to be done with Finlayson? And where will you +get a successor for him?" + +"We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good man and will do +excellent work in other fields. But where to get a man for +Windermere is the question. Do you know anyone?" + +The Assembly's Convener shook his head sadly. + +"There appears to be no one in sight," said the Superintendent. "I +have a number of applications here," picking up a good-sized bundle +of neatly folded papers, "but they are hardly the kind to suit +conditions at Windermere. Numbers of them feel themselves +specially called of God to do mission work in large centres of +population. Others are chiefly anxious about the question of +support. One man would like to be in touch with a daily train +service, as he feels it necessary to keep in touch with the world +by means of the daily newspaper. A number are engaged who want to +be married. Here's Mr. Brown, too fat. No move in him. Here's +McKay--good man, earnest, but not adaptable, like Finlayson; won't +do. Here's Garton--fine fellow, would do well, but hardly strong +enough. So what are you to do? I have gone over the whole list of +available men and I cannot find one suitable for Windermere." + +In this the Assembly's Convener could give him no help. Indeed, +from few did the Superintendent receive assistance in the securing +of men for his far outposts. + +Assistance came to him from an unexpected quarter. He was to meet +the Assembly's Convener and some members of the Committee that +evening at Professor Macdougall's for tea. The Superintendent's +mind could not be kept long away from the work that was his very +life, and at the table the conversation turned to the question of +the chronic difficulty of securing men for frontier work, which had +become acute in the case of Windermere. Margaret, who had been +invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in the dispensing of her +hospitality, was at once on the alert. Why could not Dick be sent? +If only that Presbytery difficulty could be got over he might go. +That he would be suited for the work she was well assured, and +equally certain was she that it would be good for him. + +"It would save him," Margaret said to herself with a sharp sting at +her heart, for she had to confess sadly that Dick had come to the +point where he needed saving. She had learned from Iola the whole +miserable story of Barney's visit, of his terrible indictment of +his brother and the final break between them, but she had seen +little of him during the past six months. From that terrible night +Dick had gone down in physical and in moral health. Again and +again he had written Barney, but there had been no reply. Hungrily +he had come to Margaret for word of his brother, hopeful of +reconciliation. But of late he had given up hope and had ceased to +make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy, remorseful +grief into which Margaret felt she dare not intrude. He occasionally +met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all intimacy +between them. His only relief seemed to be in his work, and he gave +himself to that with such feverish energy that his health broke +down, and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his +mother. Thence he had written once to say that his days were one +long agony. She remembered one terrible sentence. "Everything +here, the house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, +the woods, the fields, everything, everything shrieks 'Barney' at me +till I am like to go mad. I must get away from here to some place +where he has never been with me." + +It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent +that evening for a few minutes alone. In whatever company he was, +he was easily the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the +early days of the Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he was +not a man to forget his friends. He had the rare gift of gripping +them to him with "hooks of steel." Hence, he had kept in touch +with her during the latter years, pitying the girl's loneliness as +much as his admiration for her cheery courage and her determined +independence would allow him. When Margaret found her opportunity +she wasted no time. + +"I have a man for you for Windermere," were her opening words. + +"You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you +willing to spare him? Few young ladies are. But you are different +from most." The Superintendent was ever a gallant. + +"You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?" Her words came +hurriedly and there was a slight flush on her cheek. "There was +some trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. +Naismith was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I mean--we have +always been friends," she hastened to add, explaining her deepening +blush, "you know his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since +that day in Presbytery he has never been the same. His work--he is +on the Daily Telegraph, you know--takes him away from--from--well, +from Church and that kind of thing, and from all his friends." + +"I understand," said the Superintendent, with grave sympathy. + +"And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great +trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may as well tell you. +The brothers--you remember the doctor, Barney?" + +"Very well," replied the Superintendent. "Strong man. Where is he +now?" + +"He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were everything to each +other since little fellows together. Oh, it was beautiful! I +never saw anything like it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, +a terrible misunderstanding. Dick was in the wrong." The +Superintendent shot a keen glance at her. "No," she said, +answering his glance, the colour in her face deepening into a vivid +scarlet, "it was not about me, not at all. I can't tell you about +it, but that, and his trouble with the Presbytery, and all the rest +of it are just killing him. And I know if he got back to his own +work again and away from home it would save him, and his mother, +too, for she is breaking her heart. Couldn't you get him out +there?" + +The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had been for her to tell +the story, and the sight of her eager face, the big blue eyes +bright, and the lips quivering with the intensity of her feeling, +deeply touched him. + +"It might be possible," he said. + +"Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty," cried Margaret, with a +desperate note in her voice. + +"That could be arranged, I have no doubt," said the Superintendent, +brushing aside that difficulty with a wave of the hand. "The +question is, would he be willing to go?" + +"Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him and if you told him +those stories about the need there is, I am sure he would go. +Could you see him? There is no use to write. I do wish you could. +He is such a fine boy and his mother is so set upon his being a +minister." The blue eyes were bright with tears she was too brave +to let fall. + +"My dear young lady," said the Superintendent, his deep voice +growing deeper under the intensity of his feelings, "I would do +much for your sake and for your mother's. I am to visit your home +early next month. I shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, and I +promise you I shall get him if it is possible." + +The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart deprived the girl +of speech, but she shyly put out her hand and touched the long, +sinewy fingers that lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. +Instantly the fingers closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong +that it seemed to drive the conviction into her heart that somehow +this strong man would find a way by which Dick could be saved. + + +How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent overcame Dick's +objections, Margaret never learned. But the full bitter tale of +reasons against his ever taking up his work again, with which Dick +had made himself so familiar during the past dark, dreary months, +were one by one removed, and when the Superintendent left the Old +Stone Mill he had secured his missionary for Windermere. It gave +the Superintendent acute satisfaction to remember the flash of his +missionary's blue eyes as, in answer to the warning, "You will have +a hard fight of it, remember," the reply came, "A hard fight? +Thank God!" + +Before the year was over it fell that the Windermere valley came to +be one of the mission fields that gladdened the hearts of the Home +Mission Committee of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of its +doughty Convener. In the Convener's study, eight by ten, the +report from the Windermere field was discussed with the ubiquitous +and indefatigable Superintendent. + +"An extremely gratifying record," said the Superintendent, +"especially when one considers its disorganized condition a year +ago." + +"Yes, it's a good report," assented the Convener. "We had +practically no support a year ago. Our strongest man--" + +"Fink?" + +"Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's enthusiasm and devotion +were hardly of what you would call the purest type. But whatever +his motive, he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is a +splendid testimony of the power of the Gospel to see the change in +that same shrewd old sinner. Yes, sir, give the Gospel a chance +and it will do its work." The Convener, who hated all cant and +canting phrases with a perfect hatred, rarely allowed himself the +luxury of an emotional outbreak. But the case of Hank Fink seemed +to reach the springs of feeling that he kept hidden in the deep +heart of him. + +"So Boyle has done well?" said the Superintendent. "I am very glad +of it. Very glad of it, for his own sake, for his mother's, and +for the sake of another." + +"Yes," replied the Convener, "Boyle has done a fine bit of work. +He lived all summer on his horse's back and in his canoe, followed +the prospectors up into the gulches and the miners to their mines, +if you can call them mines, left a magazine here, a book there, a +New Testament next place. And once he got his grip on a man, he +never let him go. Hank told me how he found a man sick in a camp +away up in a gulch and how he stayed with him for more than a week, +then brought him down on his horse's back to the Forks. Yes, it's +a good record. A church built at the north end of the field, +another almost completed at the Forks. Really, it was very fine," +continued the Convener, allowing his enthusiasm to rise. "It +renews one's faith in the reality of religion to see a man jump +into his work like that. They didn't pay him his salary the first +half year, but he omitted to mention that in his report." + +The Superintendent sat up straight. "Is he behind yet?" + +"No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and explained that if the +field failed it was Boyle that would suffer. His language--well," +the Convener laughed reminiscently, "you have seen Hank?" + +"Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've read him. But let +us hope that his deeds will atone in a measure for his broken +English. But," continued the Superintendent, "you have had Boyle +ordained, have you not?" + +"Yes. We got him ordained," replied the Convener, beginning to +chuckle. A delighted, choking chuckle it was. Any missionary who +had worked in his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the +dark by that chuckle. It began, if one were quick to observe, with +a wrinkling about the corners of the sharp blue eyes, then became +audible in a succession of small explosions that seemed to have +their origin in the region of the esophagus and to threaten the +larynx with disruption, until relief was found in a wide-throated +peal that subsided in a second series of small explosions and +gradually rumbled off into silence somewhere in the region of the +diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the corners of the blue +eyes as a kind of warning that the whole process might be repeated +upon sufficient provocation. "Yes, we got him ordained," he +repeated when the chuckle had passed. "I was glad of your +explanatory note about him. It guided us in our arrangements for +examination." + +"What happened?" inquired the Superintendent, leaning forward. He +dearly loved a yarn, and he sorely hated to lose any of the more +humorous incidents of missionary life, not only for the joy they +brought him, but also because they furnished him with ammunition +for his Eastern campaigns. + +"Well, it was funny," said the Convener, his lips twitching and his +eyes wrinkling, "though at one time it looked like an Assembly case +with all seven of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our +latest importation in the way of ordained men? Somehow he had got +wind of Boyle's trouble with the Presbytery in the East. McPherson +is a fine fellow and doing good work." + +"Yes," assented the Superintendent, "he's a fine fellow, but his +conscience gives him a hard time now and then and works over time +for other People." + +"Well," continued the Convener, McPherson came to me about the +matter in very considerable anxiety. I put him off, consulted with +McTavish and Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good a man +to lose, and as to his heresy, it was not hurting Windermere as far +as we could learn. So it happened"--here the Convener pulled +himself up short to suppress the chuckle that threatened--"it +happened that just as the examination was beginning McPherson was +called out, and before he had returned the trials for license and +ordination had been sustained. I think on the whole McPherson was +relieved, but there were some funny moments after he came back into +court." + +"Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West," said the +Superintendent. "There's no time for it. Some of the Eastern +Presbyteries have too many men with more time on their hands than +sense in their heads." + +"Certainly there was no time lost in this case," replied the +Convener. "We knew Boyle's scholarship was right. We knew his +heart was sound. We knew he was doing good work for us and we knew +we wanted him. We were not anxious to know anything else." + +"What we want for the West," said the Superintendent, his voice +vibrating in a deeper tone, "is men who have the spirit of the +Gospel with the power to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, +with tact to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, more or +less, won't hurt them. Orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy the other +fellow's." + +"In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his touch of heresy. +It gave him a kind of brotherly feeling with all heretics. It was +that more than anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' Club." + +"Ah," said the Superintendent, bending eagerly forward, again on +the scent, "I didn't hear that." + +"Yes," said the Convener, "Fink told me about it. Boyle went to +their meetings. He found them revelling in cheap scepticism of the +Ingersollian type. He took the attitude of a man seeking after a +working theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to--his real +attitude, mind you. He encouraged them to talk, combated none of +their positions and, as Hank said, 'coaxed them out into deep water +and had them froggin' for their lives. He was the biggest +Freethinker in the bunch.' They invited him to give a series of +lectures. He did so, and that settled the Freethinkers' Club. He +never blamed them for doubting anything, and I believe that's +right." The Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and, +consequently, carried a tender heart toward them. "Let a man doubt +till he finds his faith. And that was Boyle's line. He let them +doubt, but he insisted that they should have something positive to +live by." + +"Our friend Hank," said the Superintendent, "would be delighted." + +"Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins trembling with his +mirth,' for Boyle got after him with the same demands." + +The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride in his +missionary. "That's the kind of man we want. He ought to do well +in your railroad field." + +"Yes," replied the Convener hesitatingly. "You think he ought to +go? Windermere will be furious. I wouldn't care to go in there +after Boyle is removed." + +"It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere mustn't be selfish. That +railroad work is most pressing, and only a man like Boyle will do. +There will be from three to five thousand men in there this winter +between Macleod and Kuskinook. We dare not neglect them. I have +had correspondence with Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's +Nest line, and he is not unfriendly, though he would prefer us to +send in medical missionaries. But that work he and his contractors +ought to look after." + +"There is a terrible state of things in the eastern division, I +fear, from all reports," replied the Convener. "By the way, there +is a young English doctor working on that eastern division from the +MaCleod end who is making a great stir. Bailey is his name, I +believe. He began as a navvy, but finding a lot of fellows sick, +and the doctor a poor drunken fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it +as long as he could, then finally threw him out of the camp and +installed himself in his place. The contractor backed him up and +he has revolutionized the medical work in that direction. Murray +told me the most wonderful tales about him. He must be a +remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates whiskey and won't have +it near the camp. You ought to look him up when you go in." + +"I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and the railroad people +ought to feel disgraced in employing them. They draw their fifty +cents per man a month, but their practice is shameful. It is a +delicate matter, but I shall take this up with Fahey when I see +him. He is a rough diamond, but he is fair and he won't stand any +nonsense." + +"And you think Boyle ought to go in?" + +"Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body +of men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of +things. Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? +Cheerful?" + +"No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he +came to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me +for weeks. He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life." + +The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare +gift of silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break +no confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two +letters, and after he had sealed and stamped them he placed them, +with a pile already written, on the table and sat back in his chair +indulging himself in a few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, +well-kept kitchen in the Old Stone Mill and, bending over his +letter a woman, dark-faced and stern, her wavy, black hair heavily +streaked with white, for during the past years the sword had +pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her tragic Highland +face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With glad heart +she had given him up, and now, with humble joy, she would read that +her offering had been accepted. + +The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with +all its beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl +pleading for her friend. He still could see the quivering lips and +hear the words of her invincible faith, "I know that if he got at +his own work again it would save him." He could still feel the +grateful, timid pressure of her fingers as he had pledged her his +word that her desire should be fulfilled. He had kept his word and +her faith had not been put to shame. + + + +XVI + +THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH + + +"Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould +Nick himself ye're dodgin'." + +Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan +camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos. + +"Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this +hill alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be +praised! that's over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, +kick me fut. Hivin be praised! He's there yit," said Tommy to +himself. "We're on the dump now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me +bhoy, till we see the lights av Swipey's saloon. Git along there, +will ye!" + +The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable +bush roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath +their feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The +snow was driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little +Irishman cared nothing for himself. His concern was for the man +lying under the buffalo robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the +bronchos kept up their tireless lope, encouraged by the cheery +admonitions and the cracking whip of their driver. + +"Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass +monkey. I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste." + +He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, +took a flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the +sick man. + +"Here, Scotty," he said coaxingly, "take another taste. It'll put +life into ye." The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, choked +hard, then shook his head. "Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye +swally at all? An' the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, +Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need it an' we're not far aff now." Once +more the sick man made a desperate effort. He got a little of the +whiskey down, then turned away his head. The tender-hearted little +Irishman covered him over carefully and climbed into his seat. "He +couldn't swally it," he said to himself in an awed voice, putting +the flask to his own lips, "Begorra, an' it's near the Kingdom he +must be!" To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of approaching +dissolution that a man should reject the contents of his flask. He +gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos all the +speed they had. "Come on, now, me bhoys!" he shouted through the +gale, "what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than +yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? +Take that, thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're beginin' to move! +Hooray!" + +So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they +came out into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the +lights of the new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp +No. 1. + +"Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that +thought ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me +man. In ten howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the +docthor puttin' life into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?" +But there was no movement in response. "Howly Mary! Give us a +little more speed!" He stood up over his team, lashing and yelling +till the tired beasts were going at full gallop. As he drew near +the camp the sound of singing came on the driving wind. "Now the +divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an' the camp's loose. +God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at hand!" + +Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of +the various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp +building, the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and +beyond these the glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back +nearer timber the "red lights," the curse and shame of railroad, +lumber, and mining camps in British Columbia then and unto this +day, cast their baleful lure through the snowy night. + +At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first +saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, +crying out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" +Swipey, the saloon-keeper, came himself to the door. + +"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked. + +"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye +there, Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! +Are ye alive at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the +sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to +speak. "Where's yer doctor?" + +"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?" + +"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the +boys." + +Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, +dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the +roots!" + +"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor." + +"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game +with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp." + +"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. +Here, min, let's git him in." + +"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper. + +"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!" + +"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An +angry murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to +the bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of +oaths. "What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with +a sick man? How do you know what he's got?" + +"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank +yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of +me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take +the man to?" he cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him +die on the street!" + +Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the +bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or +eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of +"Black Jack" for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," +the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his +swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its +expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black +eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, +playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last +hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a +heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having +made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on +their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with +which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like +a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in +the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as +of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting +an opportunity to get into it. + +"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not +a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the +doctor remained unmoved. + +"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty. + +"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," +who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad +luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn. + +"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to +death, an' we don't know what to do with him." + +The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be +along soon." + +"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's +chokin' to death." + +The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to +death?" He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional +instinct began to assert itself. + +"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he +can't swallow. An' we can't git him in." + +The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going +to quit." + +A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal. + +"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is +about to lose a bone. "You've got to give us a chance." + +"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this +tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred +apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand +if there's a dollar, and quit. Come on." + +The greatness of the opportunity staggered them. + +Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!" +"Give us your cards!" Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one +the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them +in breathless excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp +so reckless a stake. + +"Now, then, show down," growled "Mexico." + +The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared +their hands. He had won. With an oath "Mexico" made a grab for +the pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other +hand, but the doctor was first, and before anyone could move or +speak "Mexico" was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above +his upturned chair. + +"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," +said the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and +pushing them down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?" + +"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. +The doctor passed him on a run. + +"What does this mean?" he cried. "Why haven't you got him inside +somewhere?" + +"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the bloody +haythen wudn't let him in." + +"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the +saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door. + +"He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?" + +"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes. +Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now." + +Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind +what to do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past +the bar door. + +"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. +Be quick about it." + +Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh? +Want a bath in it next, I suppose." + +"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, +clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty." Without +hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man +undressed and in bed between heated blankets. "Now, hold the +light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay +here, Shorty, till I come back." + +He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the +storm to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical +bag and two hot-water bottles. + +"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these +full of hot water for me." + +"What is it, Doctor?" cried Shorty anxiously. + +"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before +Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. +With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work. + +"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the +antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use +with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll +touch up his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to +him this way." Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and +gave the sick man a second injection. "There. That ought to help +him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition twenty +miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster +go away without seeing me. Have him in here within an hour." +Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's name?" + +"I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old +country, I think." + +"All right. Now, go and get the teamster." + +The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, +no chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!" he +muttered, as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick +man fighting to get his breath. + +After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the +satisfaction of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by +that time he had given up all hope of saving the man's life. And +it seemed to increase his rage to see his patient slipping away +from him. For do what he could, the heart was failing rapidly and +the doctor saw that it was simply a matter of minutes. Before the +hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and looked about. +The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying to make +out the words which poor Scotty was making such painful efforts to +utter. But no words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed +to the chair on which his clothes lay. + +"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The +eyes gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he +found in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then +the eyes that had followed every movement expressed satisfaction. + +"Do you want me to read it?" + +It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing +gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well +doing, love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all +the doctor's fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The +eloquent eyes never moved from his face till the reading was +finished. Then the doctor put the letter into his big, hairy hand +so muscular and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it and with +difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes +remained closed as if in peace, but only for a moment. Once more +they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face. + +"Something else in your pocket?" + +The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he +came to a large worn pocketbook. + +"This?" + +With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost +pocket he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came +into the eyes of the dying man. He took the photograph which the +doctor placed in his hand and carried it painfully to his lips. +Once more the eyes began to question. + +"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your +eyes." The eyes remained wide open. "No? You want me to do +something for you? To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall +write to your mother and send all your things and tell them about +you." A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as if +content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In +vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to +move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word "Thank." + +"Thank who? The teamster?" + +The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers. + +"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the +doctor. "Anything else?" + +The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly +upon the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather +his meaning, till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to +speak. Once more, putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor +caught the words, "Mother--home," and again the eyes turned upward +toward the ceiling. + +"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And +once more a glad smile lit up the distorted face. + +For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, +through the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter +and drunken song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and +turned toward the door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to +his patient's side. After the spasm had passed the sick man lay +still, his eyes closed, and his breath becoming shorter every +moment. Once again the eyes made their appeal, and the doctor +hastened to seek their meaning. Listening intently, he heard the +word, "Pray." The doctor's pale face flushed quickly and as +quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, "I'm no good at +that." Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and again +the doctor caught the words, "Jesus, tender--." It had been the +doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his +lips. He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer +mockery. But the eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting +for him to begin. + +"All right," said the doctor through his set teeth, "I'll do it." + +And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn +silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses +of that ancient child's prayer, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." +At the third verse, + + + "Let my sins be all forgiven, + Bless the friends I love so well, + Take me when I die to heaven, + Happy there with Thee to dwell," + + +there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great +content, and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered +the answer had come, "Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor +Scotty! Out from the sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness +and the sin, he had been taken to the place where the blessed dwell +and whence they go no more out forever. + +Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual +tears. As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, +turning sharply about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the +door, both wiping their eyes and struggling with their sobs. + +"Confound you, Shorty!" burst forth the doctor wrathfully, "what in +the mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever +see a dead man before?" The doctor was clearly in a rage. During +the weeks Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show +anything but a perfectly cold and self-composed face. "Is this the +teamster?" continued the doctor. "Come in here. You see that man? +Someone has murdered him. Who sent him down here through this +storm? How long had he been ill? Have you a doctor up there? Are +there any more sick? Why don't you speak up? What's your name?" +In an angry flood the questions poured forth upon the hapless +Tommy, who stood speechless. "Why don't you speak?" said the +doctor again. + +Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to +require least thought to answer. "Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. +An' sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the +foreman the man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the +last twinty miles, an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz +afther me wid a poker." + +"Have you no doctor up there?" + +"Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste +that he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon +av the pig." + +"Are there any more sick?" + +"Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse +than poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!" + +The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, +speaking rapidly, "Go and bring to this room the foreman and +Swipey. And say not a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he +said, turning to Tommy, "can you start back in an hour?" + +"I can that same, if I must." + +"You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an +hour. Get something to eat." + +In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the +room. + +"This man," said the doctor, "is dead. Diphtheria. There is no +fear, Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at +once, and you will both see the necessity of having it done +quietly. I shall fumigate this room. All this clothing must be +burned and there will be no further danger. You will see about +this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 to-night." + +"To-night, doctor!" cried the foreman. "It's blowing a regular +blizzard. Can't you wait till morning?" + +"There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. "The chances are +it's diphtheria." + +In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp +possessed. + +"Have you had something to eat, Tommy?" inquired the doctor, +stepping out from the saloon. + +"That's what I have," replied Tommy. + +"All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep." + +"Not if I know it, begob!" said Tommy. "I'll stay wid yez. It's +mesilf that knows a man whin I see him." + +And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor +rejoicing to find in the call to a fight with death that excitement +without which it seemed he could not live. + + + +XVII + +THE FIGHT WITH DEATH + + +At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard +proposition. The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which +the bottom seemed to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his +foreman, Craigin, was almost in despair. For every day they were +held back by the muskeg meant a serious reduction in the profits of +Maclennan's contract. + +The foreman, Craigin, was a man from "across the line," skilled in +railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a +"driver." He was a man of great physical force and indomitable +will, and gifted in large measure with the power of command. He +knew his business thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out +of the machinery and men at his command. He himself was an +untiring worker, and no man on the line could get a bigger day out +of his force than could Craigin. His men he treated as part of his +equipment. He believed in what was called his "scrap-heap policy." +When any part of the machinery ceased to do first-class work it was +at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, so it was with the +men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must be got rid of +with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human nature, +and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him of +malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to +a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the +camp. Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as +thoroughly they dreaded to fall under his displeasure. + +The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of +spruce and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a +month of dry weather in the fall, consequently the real condition +of the ground was not discovered until the late rains had swollen +the streams from the mountain-sides and filled up the intervening +valleys and swamps. After the frost had fallen the situation was +vastly improved, but they all waited the warm weather of spring +with anxiety. + +On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor +halted the team. + +"Where are your stables, Tommy?" + +"Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house." + +"Good Lord!" murmured the doctor. "How many men have you here?" + +"Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the +road." + +"What are your sanitary arrangements?" + +"What's that?" + +"I mean how do you--what are your arrangements for keeping the camp +clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men +living together without some sanitary arrangements." + +"Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can +through the week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if +ye kin git near the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we +have wid the crathurs." + +"And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?" + +"It is that same." + +"And why was it built so close as that?" + +"Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back +av it." + +The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful +spot for a camp right there on that level." + +"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls +it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't +git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," +replied Tom. + +"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that +would be a fine spot for the camp." + +"It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is." + +As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse +which he dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered +as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild +weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red +muffler wrapped round his throat. + +"Hello, Yonie!" cried Tommy. "What's afther gittin' ye up so +early?" + +"It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his +throat. + +The doctor sprang from the sleigh. "Let me look at your throat." + +"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede +submitted to the examination. + +The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just +peeping through the treetops, and looked into his throat. "My man, +you go right back to bed quick." + +"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work to-day, boss +say. He not like men sick." + +"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed. +Where's your doctor?" + +"He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," said Tommy, +pointing the way. + +"Never mind now. Where are your sick men?" + +"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de +bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for +den seeck mans hall aroun'." + +"What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?" + +"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor +feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, +speet. Bah! dat's what you call lak' one beas'." + +The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern +swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, +the picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern. + +"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at +your throats, men." + +"Dis de docteur, men," said the cook. + +A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern +with each examination. + +"Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from +this cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp." + +"Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the +stink of it would make a well man sick." + +"And is there no place else?" + +"No. Unless it's the stables," said another man; "they're not +quite so bad." + +"Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me +give you something." He opened his bag, took out his syringe. +"Here, Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in +three minutes he had given all four an antitoxin injection. "Now, +we'll see the doctor. By the way what's his name?" + +"Hain," said the cook, "dat's his nem." + +"Haines," explained one of the men. + +"Dat's what I say," said the cook indignantly, "Hain." + +The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, +and, getting no response, opened it and walked in. + +"Be the powers, Narcisse!" cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking +after the doctor, "it's little I iver thought I'd pity that baste, +but Hivin save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer +him. An' begob, he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid +him." + +But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the +punctilious etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. +Haines sleeping heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. +He was uneasy at the outbreak of sickness in his camp, and more +especially was he seized with an anxious foreboding in regard to +the sick man who had been sent out the day before. Besides this, +the foreman had cursed him for a drunken fool in the presence of +the whole camp with such vigour and directness that he had found it +necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large and frequent +doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly medical +purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When +fully awake he was aware of a young man with a very pale and very +stern face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey +began: + +"Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp." + +"Who the deuce are you?" replied Haines, staring up at him. + +"They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line." + +"Dr. Bailey?" said Haines, sitting up. "Oh, I've heard of you." +His tone indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, it was +his special chum and confrere who had been ejected from his +position in the Gap camp through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures. + +"You have some very sick men in the camp," repeated Dr. Bailey, his +voice sharp and stern. + +"Oh, a little tonsilitis," replied Haines in an indifferent tone. + +"Diphtheria," said Bailey shortly. + +"Diphtheria be hanged!" replied Haines insolently; "I examined them +carefully last night." + +"They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty +of looking into their throats." + +"The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here +to interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your +professional manners?" Dr. Haines was the older man and resented +the intrusion of this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the +crime of his youth that of being guilty of a serious breach of +professional etiquette. + +"I ought to apologize for looking at your patients," said Dr. +Bailey. "I came in thinking I might be of some assistance in +dealing with this outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally +anxious to see--" + +"Diphtheria!" blurted Haines. "Nothing of the sort." + +"Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night had it." + +"HAD it?" + +"He died an hour after arriving at No. 1." + +"Dead? Cursed fool! He WOULD go against my will." + +"Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of +diphtheria leave this camp against your will with the company's +team?" + +"Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and +the foreman would have him out." + +"There are at least four men going about the camp--they are now in +the cook-house where the breakfast is being prepared--who are +suffering from a severe attack of diphtheria." + +"What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?" said Dr. +Haines petulantly. "No appliances, no means of isolation, no +nurses, nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. +What can I do?" + +"Do you ask me?" The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. +"Isolate the infected at least." + +Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he +poured out a cupful of whiskey from a bottle standing on a +convenient shelf. "Isolate? How can I isolate? There's no +building in which--" + +"Make one." + +"Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do +you know where you are? Do you know who is running this camp?" + +"No. But I do know that these men must be isolated within an +hour." + +"Impossible! I tell you it is impossible!" + +"Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last +night would result in the verdict of manslaughter. There was no +inquest. There will be on the next man that dies if there is any +neglect." + +The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. +"Well," he said, "if you think you can isolate them, go ahead. +I'll see the foreman." + +"Every minute is precious. I gave those four men antitoxin. Are +there others?" + +"Don't know," Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, followed +by Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door they met the foreman. + +"This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin." Craigin growled out a +salutation. "Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have diphtheria." + +"How does he know?" inquired Craigin shortly. + +"He has examined them this morning." + +"Have you?" + +"No, not yet." + +"Then you don't know they have diphtheria?" + +"No," replied Haines weakly. + +"These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they +ought to be isolated at once." + +"Isolated? How?" + +"A separate camp must be built and someone appointed to attend +them." + +"A separate camp!" exclaimed Craigin; "I'll see them blanked first! +Look here, Haines, let's have no nonsense about this. I'm three +weeks, yes, a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank +muskeg is knocking the whole contract endways. We can't spare a +single man half a day. And more than that, you go talking +diphtheria in this camp and you can't hold the men here an hour. +It's all I can do to hold them as it is." And Craigin went off +into an elaborate course of profanity descriptive of the various +characteristics of the men in his employ. + +"But what is to be done?" asked Haines helplessly. + +"Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, +anyway. It's fine to-day. We'll send every man Jack out to-day." + +"These men can't be moved," said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. "You +sent a man out yesterday and he's dead." + +"He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's +none of YOUR business. Look here, Haines, you know me. I'm not +going to have any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and +all that blankety blank rot. Dose 'em up good and send 'em out." + +Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of the foreman. + +"Mr. Craigin, it would be murder," said Dr. Bailey, "sure murder. +Some of them might get through. Some would be sure to die. The +consequences to those responsible--to Dr. Haines, for instance-- +would be serious. I am quite sure he will never give orders that +these men should be moved." + +"He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will +give the orders right enough." Craigin's laugh was like the growl +of a bear. "There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear +me. Those men are going out to-day, and so are you, you blank, +blank interferin' skunk." + +Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. "You may call me what you +please just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the day is over you won't +have enough names left. For I tell you that these men suffering +from diphtheria are going to stay here, and are going to be +properly cared for." + +Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced stranger should +presume to come into his domain, where his word was wont to run as +absolute law, filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were +serious issues at stake, and with a supreme effort he controlled +the passionate longing to spring upon this upstart and throttle +him. He turned sharply to Haines. + +"Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out to-day?" + +Haines hesitated. + +"You understand me, Haines; these men go out or--" + +Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A +moment more he paused and then surrendered. + +"Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I +guess they can go out." + +"Dr. Haines," said Craigin, "is that your decision?" + +"Yes, I think so." + +"All right," said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned to +Tommy, who was standing near with half a dozen men who had just +come out from breakfast. "Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams +ready and all the buffalo robes you need and be ready to start in +an hour. Do you hear?" + +"I do," said Tommy, turning slowly away. + +"Tommy," called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, "you took a man +out from this camp yesterday. Tell the men here what happened." + +"Sure, they all know it," said Tommy, who had already told the +story of poor Scotty's death and of the doctor's efforts to save +him. "An' it's a fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan +out av him all the way down, an' not able to swally a taste whin I +gave it to him." + +Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. "Here you blank, blank, +blank! Do what I tell you! And the rest of you men, what are you +gawkin' at here? Get to work!" + +The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked +quickly past Craigin into the midst of the group. + +"Men, I want to say something to you." His voice commanded their +instant attention. "There are half a dozen of your comrades in +this camp sick with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They +ought to be isolated to prevent the spread of the disease, and they +ought to be cared for at once. The foreman proposes to send them +out. One went out yesterday. He died last night. If these men go +out to-day some of them will die, and it will be murder. What do +you say? Will you let them go?" A wrathful murmur ran through the +crowd, which was being rapidly increased every moment by others +coming from breakfast. + +"Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!" shouted Craigin, +pouring out oaths. "And you," turning toward Dr. Bailey, "get out +of this camp." + +"I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines," replied Dr. Bailey. +"He has asked my advice, and I am giving it." + +"Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it!" + +By this time the men were fully roused. One of them came forward. + +"What do you propose should be done, Doctor?" he inquired. + +"Are you going to work, McLean?" shouted Craigin furiously. "If +not, go and get your time." + +"We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin," said +McLean quietly. "It's a serious matter. We are all concerned in +it, and we'll decide in a few minutes what is to be done." + +"Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time," +said Craigin, and he turned away and passed into the office. + +"What do you propose should be done, Doctor?" said McLean, ignoring +the foreman. + +"Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and +where they can be kept from infecting the rest of the camp. Half a +day's work of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of +them will die. Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you +have already been infected." + +At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the +disease, were for sending out the sick immediately, but the +majority would not listen to this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean +came again to Dr. Bailey. + +"The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be +stamped out here if you have a separate camp for an hospital?" + +"We can guarantee nothing," replied Dr. Bailey. "But it is +altogether the safer way to fight the disease. And I am of the +opinion that we can stamp it out." The doctor's air and tone of +quiet confidence, far more than his words, decided the men's +action. In a minute more it was agreed that the sick men should +stay and that they would all stand together in carrying out the +plan of isolation. + +"If he gives any of us time," said Tommy, "we'll all take it, +begob." + +"No, men," said the doctor, "let's not make trouble. I know Mr. +Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and he'll do what's fair. +Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen +men--one must be able to cook--and in half a day the work will be +finished. I will be personally responsible for everything." + +At this point Craigin came out. "Here's your time, McLean," he +said, thrusting a time check at him. + +McLean took it without a word and went over and stood by Dr. +Bailey's side. + +"Who are coming?" called out McLean. + +"All of us," cried a voice. "Pick out your men, McLean." + +"All right," said McLean, looking over the crowd. + +"I'm wan," said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. "I seen +him shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus fightin' fer his life, an' if +I'm tuk it's him I want beside me." + +One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the +doctor, while the rest of the men moved off to work. + +"Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for half a day." said Dr. +Bailey. + +For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for +consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen men were in his path +before he had taken the second step. + +"Hold on, Mr. Craigin," said McLean, "we want no violence. We're +going to do what we think right in this matter, so you may as well +make up your mind to it." + +"And Mr. Craigin," continued the doctor, "we shall need some things +out of your stores." + +Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. +"Your time is waiting you, men. And listen to me. If any man goes +near that there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've +got the law and I'll do it, so help me God." He went into the +office and returned in a moment with a Winchester, which he loaded +in full view of the men. + +"Never mind him, boys," said the doctor cheerily, "I'm going to +have breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you." + +In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in +his hand, to find the men still waiting his orders and Craigin on +guard with his Winchester. + +"Don't go just yet," said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, +"we'll get round him." + +"Oh, he'll not shoot," said Dr. Bailey. + +"He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. He'll shoot and he'll +kill, too." + +For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him +waiting his lead. Craigin with his rifle held them all in check. +A moment's thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward +Craigin and said in a clear voice, "Mr. Craigin, these stores are +necessary to save these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to +take them. Murder me, if you like." + +"Hear me, men." Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. "These +stores are in my charge. I am an officer of the law. If any man +lays his hand on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God." + +"Hear me, Mr. Craigin," replied Dr. Bailey. "I'm here in +consultation with Dr. Haines, who has turned over this matter to my +charge. In a case of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. +This whole camp is under his authority. These stores are +necessary, and I am going to get them." He well knew the weak spot +in his position, but he counted on Craigin's nerve breaking down. +In that, however, he was mistaken. Without haste, but without +hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. When three paces +from it Craigin's voice arrested him. + +"Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, +you're a dead man!" + +Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men +with varying cries rushed toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his +rifle. Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, +the smoking rifle dropping from his hand. + +"Begob, I niver played baseball," cried Tommy, rushing in and +seizing the rifle, "but many's the time I've had the divarsion in +the streets av Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick." + +A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's +life. They carried Craigin into the office and laid him on the +bed, the blood streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. +Quickly Dr. Bailey got to work and before Craigin had regained +consciousness the wound was sewed up and dressed. Then giving him +over to the charge of Haines, Dr. Bailey went about the work he had +in hand. + +Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered +to be in various stages of diphtheria were comfortably housed in a +roomy building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and +tarpaulin, with a small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate in +charge. And before night had fallen the process of disinfecting +the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, and cookery was well under way, +while all who had been in immediate contact with the infected men +had been treated by the doctor with antitoxin as a precautionary +measure. + +Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue +still undecided, but the chances for winning were certainly greater +than they had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able +to take command again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for +the next two days, the work on the dump was prosecuted with all +vigour, the men feeling in honour bound to support the doctor in +that part of the fight which fell to them. + + + +XVIII + +THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST + + +Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, good-humoured +face, which usually wore a smile indicating content with the world +and especially with himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg +was beating him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing in +General Manager Fahey to have a look at things. It was important +to awaken the sympathy of the General Manager, if, indeed, this +could be accomplished. But the General Manager had a way of +insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and this stretch in +Maclennan's charge was the one spot which the General Manager +feared would occasion delay. + +"There's the hole," said Maclennan, as they turned down the hill +into the swamp. "Into that hole," he continued, pointing to where +the dump ended abruptly in the swamp, "I can't tell you how many +millions of carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was +never beaten in my life, but that hole--" + +"Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or +trestled, and we can't wait too long, either." + +The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of +energy in railroad construction that refused to consider obstacles. +Nothing could stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the +weight of his determination simply had to move in one direction or +other. The contractor that failed expected no mercy, and received +none. + +"We're doing our best," said Maclennan, "and we will continue to do +our best. Hello! what's this? What's Craigin doing up here? Hold +up, Sandy. We'll look in." + +At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met him. + +"Hello, Doctor! What have you got here?" + +"Isolation hospital," replied the doctor shortly. + +"What hospital?" + +"Isolation." + +"Has Craigin gone mad all at once?" + +"Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a new boss in camp." + +A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. +Haines was beginning to enjoy himself. + +"A new boss? What do you mean?" + +"What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into +this camp three days ago, raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up +Craigin with a broken head, and took charge of the camp." +Maclennan stood in amazement looking from Haines to the General +Manager. + +"Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do +with it? And how did Craigin come to allow him?" + +"Ask Craigin," replied Haines. + +"What have you got in there, Doctor?" asked Mr. Fahey. + +"Diphtheria patients." + +"How many?" + +"Well, we began with eight three days ago and we've ten to-day." + +"Well, this knocks me out," said Maclennan. "Where's Craigin, +anyway?" + +"He's down in his own room in bed." + +Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. "Come on, Fahey," he +said, "let's go down. Something extraordinary has happened. You +can't believe that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?" + +Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any +situation. "I can't help it, Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of +cigars that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. +But it's no laughing matter," continued the General Manager, +sobering up. "This has a very serious aspect. There are a whole +lot of men sick in our camps. You contractors don't pay enough +attention to your health." + +"Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time +to think of health." + +"I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of +health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that +string of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of +them never should have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never +used either shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold, +rheumatism, or something; they're not fit for their work. All the +same, we get blamed. But my theory is that every camp should have +an hospital, with three main hospitals along this branch. There's +one at Macleod. It is filled, overflowing. A young missionary +fellow, Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook supported by +some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, too; but it's +overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss +Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get +the fellows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I get sick +send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three +first-class men, with three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, +we'd keep the health department in first-class condition. The men +would stay with us. We'd get altogether better results." + +"That's all right," said Maclennan, "but where are you to get your +first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors or +some big bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that +man Haines. He doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. +Dr. Bailey seems to be different. He certainly knows his work and +he never touches whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In +two weeks' time he had things in great shape. Funny thing, too, +when he's fighting some sickness or busy he's all right, but when +things get quiet he hits the green table hard. He's a wonder at +poker, they say." + +The General Manager pricked up his ears. "Poker, eh? I'll remember +that." + +"But this here business is going too far," continued Maclennan. "I +didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has +to say." + +As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook. + +"Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?" + +"Good-day, cook," said Maclennan. "Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in +a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin." + +Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, +"M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie +on bed." + +"Why, what's the matter with him?" + +Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass +on de office you see de docteur." + +"Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him." + +"Hain!" said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. "Dat's no docteur +for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He +know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's +come in, fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, +sore, bad. Fill up de cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! +Dat new docteur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, +he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans all nice an' snug. +Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!" + +The smile broadened on Fahey's face. "I say, Maclennan, he's +captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure." + +The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office +door and passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he +found Dr. Bailey in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put +up his hand for silence and backed him out into the office. + +"Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan," he said, "he's asleep and must not be +disturbed." + +Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold "How are you," and +introduced him to Mr. Fahey. + +"Is Mr. Craigin ill?" inquired Fahey innocently. + +"He has met with a slight accident," replied the doctor. "He is +doing well and will be about in a day or two." + +"Accident?" snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a +speech he began in a loud tone, "Dr. Bailey, I must say--" + +"Excuse me," said the doctor, opening the office door and +marshalling them outside, "we'd better go somewhere else if we are +going to talk. It is important that my patient should be kept +perfectly quiet." The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and +at the same time so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking +meekly toward the grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the +smile on his face broader than ever, bringing up the rear. +Maclennan caught the smile, but in the face of the doctor's quiet, +respectful manner he found it difficult to rouse himself to wrath. +He took refuge in bluster. + +"Upon my word, Dr. Bailey," he burst forth when once they were +inside the grub-house, "it seems to me that you have carried things +on with a high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect +stranger, you head a mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous +wound, with absolutely no authority from anyone. What in the +blank, blank do you mean, anyway?" Maclennan was rather pleased to +find himself at length taking fire. + +"Mr. Maclennan," said the doctor quietly, "it is natural you should +be angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final +judgment. A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying +condition. Diphtheria. I learned there were others suffering here +with the same disease. I came in at once to offer assistance. +Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a practical agreement as to +what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin objected. There was some +trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt." + +"Dr. Bailey," said the General Manager, "it will save trouble if +you will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact +statement of what occurred." The authoritative tone drew Dr. +Bailey's attention to the rugged face of the speaker, with its +square forehead and bull-dog jaw. He recognized at once that he +had to deal with a man of more than ordinary force, and he +proceeded to give him an exact statement of all that had happened, +beginning with the death of Scotty Anderson. + +"That is all, gentlemen," said the doctor, as he concluded his +tale; "I did what I considered was right. Prompt action was +necessary. I may have been mistaken, but I think not." + +"Mistaken!" cried Fahey, with a great oath. "I tell you, +Maclennan, we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that +one man's death, but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp +in the condition in which the doctor says they were, the results +would have been not only deplorable as far as the men are +concerned, but disastrous to us with the public. Why, good heavens +above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I am proud to meet you," +continued Fahey, putting out his hand. "You had a most difficult +situation to deal with and you handled it like a general." + +"I quite agree with you," said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly +by the hand. "The measures were somewhat drastic, but something +had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet +again we'll send him out." + +"Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would +suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of +his force." + +"Well, well, we'll see, we'll see." + +"Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will +be busy just now and will excuse us." + +The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. +Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of +the sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so +intelligent, Dr. Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to +the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the last few +months, had been absorbing his mind. + +"These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance--every +one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. +In location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of +refuse, the treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business +reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For instance, take this +camp. The only thing that prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the +cold weather. In the spring you will have a state of things here +that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at the location of +the camp. Down in a swamp, with a magnificent site five hundred +yards away," pointing to a little plateau further up the hill, +clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. "Then look at +the stables where they are. There are no means by which the men +can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of +them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all +sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a +camp here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for +emergencies. Why, good heavens! they might at least have kept the +vermin out." + +"Oh, pshaw!" said Fahey, "every camp has to have a few of them +fellows. Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't +absolutely drive them out." + +"Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean +of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would +pay," continued the doctor. "You would keep your men in good +condition, in good heart and spirits. They would do twice the +work. They would stay with you. Besides, it would prevent +scandal." + +"Scandal?" The General Manager looked up sharply. + +"Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down +the line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be +all over the East in a few weeks." + +The General Manager was thinking hard. "Look here, young man," he +said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, "do you drink?" + +"No." + +"Do you gamble?" + +"When I've nothing to do." + +"Oh, well," said Mr. Fahey, "a little poker doesn't hurt a man now +and then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will +consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical +superintendent of this line at a salary of three thousand a year +and all expenses. It's not much, but if the thing goes we can +easily increase it. You needn't answer just now. Think it over. +I don't know your credentials, but I don't care." + +For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a +letter. "I didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to +use it. But you can look at it." + +Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read +it again with more care. + +"You know Sir William?" + +"Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London." + +"This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have +stood very high in the profession in London." + +"I had a fairly good position," said Dr. Bailey. + +"May I ask why you left?" + +Dr. Bailey hesitated. "I grew tired of the life--and, besides-- +well--I wanted to get away from things and people." + +"Pardon my asking," said Fahey hastily. "It was none of my +business. But, Doctor--" here he glanced at the letter again, +"Bailey, you say your name is?" + +"They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go." + +"Very well, sir," replied Fahey quickly, "Bailey let it be. My +offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a +man of your standing for less." + +"Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to +forget. When I saw how things were going at the east end I +couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my +professional work so much. It has kept me busy. I will accept +your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding +that I am to have my way in everything." + +"By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine," said Fahey, with a +laugh, "so we may as well put it in the contract. In your +department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. +If you don't see it, we will get it for you." + +On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's +room with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice +saying, "I believe it was a put-up job with Tommy." + +"It's a blank lie!" roared Craigin. "I have it from Tommy that it +was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me +it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever +walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around +my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? +Why ain't he here attending to his business?" + +"Craigin," he said quietly, "let me look at that. Ah, it's got a +twist, that's all. There, that's better." + +Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank +back in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him +his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some +nourishment. + +"There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now +you must be kept quiet." As he said this he motioned them out of +the room. As he was leaving, Craigin called him back. + +"I want to see Maclennan," he said gruffly. + +"Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin," replied the doctor, in soothing +tones. + +"I want to see him now." + +The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back. + +"Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these +mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have +been a murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for +that lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say +this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against +me." + +"All right, Craigin," said Maclennan, "I'm glad to hear you say so. +And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge." + +Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went +to the bedside. "Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you +my friend." + +That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, +leaving Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than +he had been for some days. + + + +XIX + +THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK + + +Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his +abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly +established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he +was present on the occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of +the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer came +through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence +on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Macdougall. It was to her that Dick +had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into +existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. "We want as +matron," Dick had written, "a strong, sane woman who knows her +work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in +manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she +is the better." + +"Cheery in manner and brave in heart?" Mrs. Macdougall had said to +herself, looking at the letter. "The very one! She is that and +she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough +even for Mr. Dick." Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of +deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that +point. "No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who +knows, but--" Not even to herself, however, much less to another, +did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging +the appointment. + +With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to +consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever +"Barney's mother." + +"It would be a very fine work," said Mrs. Boyle, "but oh, lassie! +it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew +you!" + +"Why, Dick is not very far away." + +"Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the +travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if +anything should happen to you, and no one to care for you?" + +The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much +during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with +Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger +and favourite son, she had without grudging made the ancient +sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face. + +"What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?" said Ben, +breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. "There's one of +the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his +place, an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang +gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that day down at +the 'Old King's' w'en me an' Barney an' Dick--" + +"Och! Ben lad," said Mrs. Boyle, "Margaret will be hearing that +story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an +hospital?" + +"Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look +after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't +she?" + +"Aye, that she does," remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that +Margaret flushed as she cried, "Not I! My business is to look +after other people." + +But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that +Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not +do better than take Ben along to "look after her," as he put it. +Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and +Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, +and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital +orderly, Ben Fallows. And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely +acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he +was ever ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg +clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was +especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and +springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the +clumsiness of the other leg in comparison. + +"W'en it comes to legs," Ben would say, "this 'ere's the machine +fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the +toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below." + +As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious +appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The +institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but +an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, +it stood unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. +While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder +grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In his mind she +dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her +became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook +hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which +his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces. + +It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. +Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been +justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of +malignant type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along +the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy +to Kuskinook in charge of an assistant. After a six weeks' +doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and +with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, +which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, +notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the +tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to +discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to +be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons associated +therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had +long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself +was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to +gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy +venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the +young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part +of the institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the +hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion +the superior methods of those down the line. + +It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his +unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating +criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings. + +"It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't +have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do +the thrick, so they do." + +"I guess they're all right fer simple cases," agreed Ben, "but w'en +yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!" + +"Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a +notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a +man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' +the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid +him in the mountains!" + +"Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?" inquired Ben, with +fine scorn. + +"Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. +An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! +I'll ate him alive, an' so I will." + +"Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said Ben, with studied, +politeness, "that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for +I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," +displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. "But what I say is +that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the +Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the +man fer me!" + +"Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in +the same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av +the railway?" + +"I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general," replied +Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, "but I'm talkin' about this +'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle." Ben's attention to the +finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. +"An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain +'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard +Boyle, Esquire." + +"Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?" + +"Well," said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, "I hain't +got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the +Windermere which--" + +"Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a +man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' +show their hats?" + +"As I was sayin'," continued Ben, "there's two churches up the +Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes +by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell +you"--here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, +holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his +words, straight at Tommy's face--"I tell you she puts them churches +above even this 'ere hinstitution!" And Ben sat back in his chair +to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight +with Tommy. For once Tommy was without reply, for anything +savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was +impossible to him. + +"An' what's more," continued Ben, "this 'ere hinstitution in which +we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same +preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!" +And still Tommy remained silent. + +"An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' +Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere +preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en +they git time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' +for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're +straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know +would be a lot better if they done the same." + +"Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the +docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?" + +"Yes, that's w'at I 'ear," conceded Ben. "But e'll soak 'em good +at poker." + +"Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy enthusiastically. +"An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take +the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk +at the 'rid lights'--" + +"'Red lights'? interrupted Ben. "Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared +up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'." + +"Who did, thin?" + +"Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man." + +"Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape." + +"Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, +beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's h's became more lubricous with +his rising indignation. "An' I 'appen to know that agin the +Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own +helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site +an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere +preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all +'unt their 'oles!" + +"Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the +docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the +iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look +like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he +gave thim?" + +"No," said Ben, "I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't." + +"Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears +clane." + +"My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!" cried Ben, +whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking. + +"Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from +a batin'!" + +"I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," replied Ben +scornfully, "but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to +haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher--" + +"Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor +yonder's worth--" + +"Now, Mr, Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up +with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any +reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, +by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not +me!" Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. "I'd 'ave yeh to +know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution--" + +"Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the +Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand-- Howly Moses! +here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year +beside her!" + +"Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably +well to-day," cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and +cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit. + +"Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?" said the +gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. "Sure, it's +better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face." + +"Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on +like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman +begins to blarney." + +"Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, +for I haven't the strength to do that same." + +"Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well +again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go +and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just +wanting his help in preparing my annual report." + +"Report!" cried Ben. "A day like this! No, sez I; git out into +the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him +good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh." + +And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the +matron's inability to take thought for herself. + +The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window +there stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its +varied loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine +and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the +Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an arching +rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine +tops and, beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in +whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up +the valley to the east the line of the new railway gleamed here and +there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge +issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest- +clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress. + +For some moments Dick stood gazing. "Of all views I see, this is +the best," he said. "Day or night I can get it clear as I see it +now, and it always brings me rest and comfort." + +"Rest and comfort?" echoed Margaret, coming to his side. "Yes, I +understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at +night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling +with its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at +it long." + +"I understand," replied Dick, slowly. "Barney used to say the same +about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill." + +Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought +with each was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they +refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare +intervals, but each knew how the thought of him lurked in the +heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb. + +"Come, this won't do," said Margaret, almost sharply. + +"No, it won't do," replied Dick, each reading the thought in the +other's heart. + +"I am struggling with my report," said Margaret in a business-like +tone. "What shall I say? How shall I begin?" + +"Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things +that will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the +Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming +stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing +stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady +of Kuskinook." + +"Hush, Dick," said Margaret softly. "You are forgetting the man +who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for +the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and +his own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to +them and sings to them till they forget their homesickness, which +is the sickness the hospital cannot cure." + +"Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best +part of this report will be that that is never written, except on +the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the +Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers." + +"Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?" + +"Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--" + +"What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of +them!" + +"Yes," replied Dick. "But think of what there would have been but +for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps +upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, +established hospitals, and all that sort of thing." + +"So you've got it, too," said Margaret, with a smile. + +"Got what?" + +"Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, +Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere." + +"Is that so?" replied Dick, laughing. "Well, there are some who +have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, +they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill +him." + +"And yet they say he is--" + +"Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. +But he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember +the big fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of +that hole. The Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town +site agent, was fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our +church unless I'd leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere +quoting the British army in India against me. Even my own men, +church members, mind you, one of them an elder, thought I should +attend to my own business. These people were their best customers. +Why, they actually went so far as to write to the Presbytery that I +was antagonizing the people and ruining the Church. Well, you +remember the big meeting called to protest against this vice? The +enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the +'Liberal' side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow +dying up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for me. In +came Dr. Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and +then went for them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but in +those ten minutes he crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. +Colonel Hilliers and the editor of The Pioneer, I understand, went +white and red, yellow and green, by turns. The crowd simply +yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with the men. They +passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. Quite +true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and +stayed at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and +all the more because I am told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' +and his gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to +meet him, but he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort at +bottom." + +"To hear Tommy talk," replied Margaret, "you would make up your +mind he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his +ways and doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on +their luck. Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in +regard to the comparative merits of the doctor and yourself." + +"Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough," said Dick earnestly, +"that you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me feel safer +to think that he is here." + +"Ben will agree with you," replied Margaret, "I assure you. He +assumes full care of me and of the whole institution." + +"Good boy, Ben," said Dick, heartily. "And he is a kind of link to +that old home and--with the past, the beautiful past, the past I +like to think of." The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, +deepening its lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and +unrest. + +"A beautiful past it was," replied Margaret gently. "We ought to +be thankful that we have it." + +"Have you heard anything?" inquired Dick. + +"No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after +her arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know +where he had gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but +there has been no word since." + +Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud. + +"Never mind, Dick, boy," said Margaret, laying her hand upon his +head as if he had been a child, "it will all come right some day." + +"I can't stand it, Margaret!" groaned Dick, "I shut it out from me +for weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my cursed +folly that wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, +for all I know, and mine!" + +"You must not say wrecked," replied Margaret. + +"What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you +would say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing +left in this that can atone!" + +"That, too, you must not say, Dick," said Margaret. "God has +something yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has +given. The best is always before us. Besides," she continued +eagerly, "He has given you all this work to do, this beautiful +work." + +The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. "Yes, yes, I must not +forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to +work. What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. +I can't help the heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should +ever say a word of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far +down out of sight. He pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I +am not complaining! It is not for myself. If there were only one +word to know he was doing well, was safe!" He turned suddenly to +Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. "Margaret, do you +think God will give me this?" His voice was hoarse with the +intensity of his passion. "Do you know, I sometimes feel that I +don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. +Wealth, honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are +nothing to me if only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. +Yes, even my love for you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest +thing next to my love of my Lord, I'd give up to know. But three +years have gone since that awful night and not a word! It eats and +eats and eats into me here," he smote himself hard over his heart, +"till the actual physical pain is at times more than I can stand. +What do you think, Margaret?" he continued, his face quivering +piteously. "Every time I think of God I think of Barney. Every +prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I +am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it +long? Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take +away the pain? Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this +I preach!" + +"Hush, Dick!" said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she +understood only too well. "Hush! You must not doubt God. God +forgives and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away +the pain as soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and +trust. God will give him back to us. I feel it here." She laid +her hand upon her heaving breast. + +For some moments Dick was silent. "Perhaps so," he said at length. +"For your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he will." + +"Come," said Margaret, "let us go out into the open air, into God's +sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and +see the Goat cavort." She took him by the arm and lifted him up. +At the door she met Ben. "I won't be gone long, Ben," she +explained. + +"Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret," replied Ben graciously. +"An' the longer yeh stay the better fer the hinstitution." + +"That's an extremely doubtful compliment," laughed Margaret, as +they passed down the winding path that made its way through the +tall red pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a +broad ledge of rock that jutted out over the boiling water, +Margaret seated herself with her back against the big red polished +bole of a pine tree, while at her feet Dick threw himself, +reclining against a huge pine root that threw great clinging arms +here and there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet May day. +All the scents and sounds of spring filled up the fragrant spaces +of the woods. Far up through the great feathering branches gleamed +patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared +with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought in network +pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile fury +at the unmoved black rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's +edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges, +hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the +forest, were all spring's myriad tender things wherewith she +redeems Nature from winter's ugliness. From the river below came +gusts of misty wind, waves of sound of the water's many voices. It +was a spot where Nature's kindly ministries got about the spirit, +healing, soothing, resting. + +With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine +branches wave about him and listening to the voices that came from +the woods around and from the waters below, till the fever and the +doubt passed from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the +road again. + +"You don't know how good this is, Margaret," he said, "all this +about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you +oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man +again. Oh, Margaret! if only you could let me hope that some day--" + +"Look, Dick!" she cried, springing to her feet, "there's the train." + +It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way +like some great jointed reptile through the woods below. + +"Tell me, Margaret," continued Dick, "is it quite impossible?" + +"Oh, Dick!" cried the girl, her face full of pain, "don't ask me!" + +"Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?" + +She clasped her hands above her heart. "Dick," she cried +piteously, "I can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. +While Barney lives I could not be true and be another's wife." + +"While Barney lives!" echoed Dick blankly. "Then God grant you may +never be mine!" He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake +of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. +"Come, let us go," he said. "There will be letters and I must get +to work." + +"Yes, Dick dear," said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, +"there's always our work, thank God!" + +Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which +was to them, as to many others, God's salvation. + +There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, +but one among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from +Iola. She caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of +Barney. She was not mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's +glowing accounts of her season's triumph with Wagner. "It has been +a great, a glorious experience," wrote Iola. "I cannot be far from +the top now. The critics actually classed me with the great +Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am tired out. The doctors say +there is something wrong, but I think it is only that I am tired to +death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but I don't want to sing +for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I want--oh, fool +that I was!--I may as well out with it--I want Barney. I have no +shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to come. +But he would not. He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you +at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. Sometimes +I am afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think +that is it. I am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! +That is the best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't throw +away love! There, this letter has tired me out. My face is hot as +I read it and my heart is sore. But I must let it go." The tears +were streaming down Margaret's face as she read. + +"Read it, Dick," she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into his +hands. + +Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word. + +"Oh, where is he?" cried Margaret, wringing her hands. "If we only +knew!" + +"The date is a month old," said Dick. "I think one of us must go. +You must go, Margaret." + +"No, Dick, it must be you." + +"Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember--" + +"Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go." + +"For Barney's sake," said Dick, with a sob in his throat. "Yes, +I'll go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in +the Big Horn Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to +him. Oh! if I could only bring her back for him, dear old boy! +God give me this!" + +"Amen," said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and +dies hard. + + + +XX + +UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN + + +The Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid course through rough +country into the Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, led over +high mountain shoulders in a way heartbreaking to packers. For +this reason, all who knew the ways and moods of a canoe chose the +water in going up the canyon. True enough, there were a number of +lift-outs and two rather long portages that made the going up +pretty stiff, but if a man had skill with the paddle and knew the +water he might avoid these by running the rapids. Men from the +Ottawa or from some other north Canadian river, like all true +canoemen, hated to portage and loved to take the risk of the +rapids. Though the current was fairly rapid, going upstream was +not so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the canoeman +happened to know how to take advantage of the eddies, how to sneak +up the quiet water by the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe +into the swift water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, the keeper +of the stopping place at the Landing, said, "She would walk on de +rapide toute suite lak one oiseau." + +There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the upper camp on the Big +Horn, and Dr. Bailey had been urgently summoned. The upper camp +lay on the other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles or more +from the steel. The lake itself was six miles long by canoe, but +by trail it was at least twice that. Hence, though there would be +some stiff paddling in the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his +choice of route. He knew his canoe and loved every rib and thwart +in her. He had learned also the woodsman's trick of going light. +A blanket, a tea pail which held his grub, consisting of some +Hudson Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a little tea and sugar, +and his drinking cup constituted his baggage, so that he could make +the portages in a single carry. Many a mile had he gone, thus +equipped, both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings up and +down these valleys, doing his work for the sick and wounded in the +railroad, lumber, and tie camps, and more recently in the new- +planted mining towns. + +It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze upstream would +help him in his fight with the current and coming down it would be +glorious. The sun was just appearing over the row of pines that +topped the low mountain range to the east when he packed his kit +and blankets under the gunwale in the bow and slipped his canoe +into the water. He was about to step in when a voice he had not +heard for many days arrested him. + +"Hello, Duprez! Did you see the preacher pass this way yesterday? +He was-- By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!" + +It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two +swift steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm +and walked him swiftly apart. + +"Ben," he said, in a low, stern voice, "not a word. I once did you +a good turn?" + +Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech. + +"Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know +now." + +"But--but Miss Margaret and Dick--" gasped Ben. + +"They don't know," interrupted the doctor, "and must not know. +Will you promise me this, Ben?" + +"By Jove, Barney! I don't--I don't think--" + +"Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?" + +"Yes, by the livin'--" + +"Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old +days." The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl. + +"You bet, Bar--Doctor!" he cried. + +"Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad." + +He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just +above the falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat. + +"Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!" sang out Duprez. "You cache hup +de preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night." + +"What? Who?" + +"De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's +camp on de Beeg Fall, s'pose." + +Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. "Went up last night, +did he?" + +"Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send +for M'sieu Boyle." + +"Did he go up alone?" + +"Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe." + +It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he +should fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at +all costs, he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat +holding his canoe, calculating time and distances. At length he +came to a resolve. He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he +trusted his own ingenuity to avoid the meeting he dreaded. + +"All right, Duprez! bon jour." + +"Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You +mak' de portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?" + +"No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her." + +"Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur," answered Duprez, shrugging his +shoulders. "Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!" + +"Don't worry about me," cried the doctor. "Just watch me take this +little riffle." + +"Bien!" cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy +and, with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point +where the stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which +led to the falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a +little extra weight on his paddle or that he did not exercise that +unsleeping vigilance which the successful handling of the canoe +demands, but whatever the cause, when the swift water struck the +canoe, in spite of all his strength and skill, he soon found +himself almost in midstream and going down the rapids. + +"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot +to the other. "A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come +out on de heddy!" + +The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the +frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy +and gradually edged her into the quiet water. + +"You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!" cried Duprez, as the +doctor paddled slowly up the edge past him. "You bes' pass on de +portage. Not many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca." + +"All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all." + +Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the +thing before and he was not to be beaten now. As the eddy bore him +toward the swift water again he carefully gauged the angle of +attack, so that when the nose of the canoe entered the riffle, with +the trick that all canoemen know, he held her up firm against the +water, and, with no very great effort, but by skilful manipulations +of the force of the current, he shoved her gradually across the +riffle into the slow water near the farther bank, and with a +triumphant wave of the paddle disappeared around the bend. + +"He's good man," said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all this +time to recover from the shock of Barney's sudden appearance. "But +de preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night." + +"Did, eh?" answered Ben. "Well, he didn't put in three summers on +the Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the canoe, an' so's his +bro--that is--the doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!" Ben +was much excited. + +"Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for sure!" + +Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, +taking advantage of every eddy and cross current, stealing along +the bank under the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, +lifting his canoe over rocky bits, till near mid-day he found +himself at the portage below the Long Rapid. + +"Guess I'll camp on the other side," he said, talking aloud after +the manner of men who live much alone. He adjusted his paddles on +the thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, +and, taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the half mile +portage without a "set down." + +"There," he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, "my +legs are better than my arms. Now we'll grub." He unpacked his +tea pail, cut his bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built +a fire, drew a pail of water, threw in a handful of tea, swung it +by a poplar sapling over the fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. +In fifteen minutes his meal was ready--such a meal as can be had +only in the mountains under the open sky and at the end of a ten- +mile paddle against the stream of the Big Horn. After dinner he +lit his pipe and stretched himself in the warm spring sun for half +an hour's quiet think. The old restlessness was coming back upon +him. His work as Medical Superintendent of the railway construction +was practically completed. The medical department was thoroughly +organized and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much over +so far as he was concerned. And with the easing of the strain there +came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the last three +years driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his +professional honour demanded that he should hold his post and do his +work, he had long ago left a district where he was kept constantly +in mind of what he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the +exercise of the most assiduous care he had prevented a meeting with +his brother during the last three months. But in this he could not +hope to be successful much longer. Before his second pipe was +smoked he had reached his resolve. "I'll pull out of this," he +said, "once this Big Horn camp is cleaned up." + +He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a +right woodsman, slipped his canoe into the water, and set off +again. His meeting with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought +his brother near him to-day. Everything was eloquent of those days +they had spent together on the upper reaches of the Ottawa. The +flowing river, the open sky, the wood, the fresh air, and, most of +all, the slipping canoe spoke to him of Dick. The fierce +resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that had been as a festering +in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day to have lost their +stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with every deep +breath of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the canoe, +the buoyant gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling into +his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself singing, to the +rhythmic swing of paddle and shoulders, the old Habitant canoe +song: + + + "En roulant ma boule roulant." + + +As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he +sternly check himself and resolutely set another air going in his +head, only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to +the old song to which he and his brother had so often made their +canoe slip in those great days that now seemed so far away. + + + "En roulant ma boule," + + +sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's +clear tenor from the bow. "Here, confound it! Quit it, I say!" he +said aloud savagely. + + + "En roulant ma boule roulant," + + +in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. +The doctor almost dropped his paddle into the stream. + +"Heavens above!" he muttered. "What's that? Who's that?" + + + "Visa la noir, tua le blanc, + Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant," + + +sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just +that way. With two swift heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe +into the overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled +his canoe up the bank after him. Down the river still came the +song, and ever nearer. + + + "O fils du roi tu es mechant, + En roulant ma boule." + + +The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to +the bank came the canoe, the singer sitting in the stern, his hat +off and his face showing brown against the fair hair. How strong +he looked and how handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride +in his brother's good looks. Yes, he was handsome as ever, and yet +he was different. "He's older, that's it," said the man in the +bushes, breathing hard. No, it was not that altogether. There was +a new gravity, a new dignity, upon the face. All at once the song +ceased abruptly. The paddle was laid down and the canoe allowed to +drift. The current carried her still nearer the shore. Every line +in the face could now be seen. The man peering out through the +bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in that +grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument of +grief. The change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply +the gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and something +else. This was the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of +the face and in its place sadness, almost gloom. Straight down the +river the grave, sad face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with +unseeing gaze upon the flowing water. The canoe was now almost +abreast the hiding place in the bushes and still drifting. +Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his face toward the sky, +cried out, "I'll bring her back, please God, and I'll find him, +too!" The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped under his +hand. He threw himself face down and gripped his hands hard into +the moss as if to hold himself there. "A deer, I guess, but I must +get on," he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, +looking out through the bushes, he saw the swaying figure of the +man he most longed and most dreaded to see of all men in the world +fast disappearing from his view. Twice he raised his hands to his +lips to call after him, but even as he did so a vision held his +voice, the vision of a room in a city far away, the girl he loved, +and this man pressing hot kisses on her face. + +"No," he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, "let +him go." But still with straining eyes he gazed after the swaying +figure till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he +sank down on the deep moss bank with the air of a man who has just +passed through a heavy fight. + +The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The +brightness had gone out of the light, the sweetness out of the air. +A burning pain filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The +old sore, which his work for the sick and wounded had helped to +heal over, had been torn open afresh, and the first agony of it was +upon him again. He arrived at the upper camp late at night and +weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled on in his fight with the +typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the day, then, snatching +an hour's sleep, he set off down the Big Horn, resolved that ere a +week had passed he would seek in some far land the forgetting which +here was impossible to him. + +Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without +awakening any rhythmic song in his heart. It was a heavy grind to +be got through with as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of +the canoe failed to quicken his heart a single beat. It was still +early in the forenoon when he reached the Long Rapid. It was a +dangerous bit of water, but without a moment's considering he stood +upright in his canoe and, casting a quick glance down the boiling +slope, he made his choice of passage. Then getting on his knees he +braced them firmly against the sides of his canoe and before he was +well ready found himself in the smooth, steep pitch at the crest of +that seething incline of plunging water. Two long swallowlike +swoops, then a mad plunging through a succession of buffeting, +curling waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed through, a +great heave or two over the humping billows at the foot, then the +swirl of the eddy caught him, and lifted him clear over into the +quiet water. One minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was +left behind. + +"Didn't take that quite right," he grumbled. "Ought to have lifted +her sooner. Next time I'll get through dry. Next time?" he +repeated. "God knows if there'll ever be any next time of that +water for me." He paddled round the eddy toward the shore, +intending to dump the water out of his canoe. "Hello! What in +thunder is that?" Up against the driftwood, where it had been +carried by the eddy, a canoe was floating bottom upwards. "God +help us!" he groaned. "It's his canoe! My God! My God! Dick, +boy, you're not lost! He'd run these rapids. That's his style. +Oh, why didn't I call him? We could have done it together safe +enough!" He stood up in his canoe and searched eagerly among the +driftwood. "Dick! Dick!" he called over and over again in the +wild cry of a wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and +examined it. "Ah, that's where he hit the rocks, just at the foot. +But he shouldn't drown here," he continued, "unless they hit him. +Let's see, where would that eddy take him?" For another anxious +minute he stood observing the run of the water. "If he could keep +up three minutes," he said, "he ought to strike that bar." With a +few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand bar. "Ha!" he cried. +A paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark. "That never +floated there." He leaped out and drew up his canoe, then, +dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the bar. There +on the sand was stamped the print of an open hand. "Now, God be +thanked!" he cried, lifting his hands toward the sky, "he's reached +this spot. He's somewhere on shore here." Like a dog on scent he +followed up the marks to the edge of the forest where the bank rose +steeply over rough rocks. Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the +alert for any sign. He reached the top. A quick glance he threw +around him, then with a low cry he rushed forward. There, +stretched prone on the moss, a little pile of brushwood near him, +with his match case in his hand, lay his brother. "Oh, Dick, boy!" +he cried aloud, "not too late, surely!" He dropped beside the +still form, turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his +heart. "Too late! Too late!" he groaned. Like a madman he rushed +out of the woods, flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his +canoe, seized his bag and scrambled back again. Again, and more +carefully, he felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could detect a +feeble flutter. Hurriedly he seized his flask and, forcing open +the closed teeth, poured a few drops of the whiskey down the +throat. But there was no attempt to swallow. "We'll try it this +way." With swift fingers he filled his syringe with the whiskey +and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited with his hand upon +the feebly fluttering heart. "My God! it's coming, I do believe!" +he cried. "Now a little strychnine," he whispered. "There, that +ought to help." + +Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and +blanket. In five minutes he had a fire going and his tea pail +swung over it with a little more than a cupful of water in it. In +five minutes more he had half a cup of hot tea ready. By this time +the heartbeat could be detected every moment growing stronger. +Into the tea he poured a little of the stimulant. "If I can only +get this down," he muttered, chafing at the limp hands. Once more +he lifted the head, pried open the shut jaws, and tried to pour a +few drops of the liquid down. After repeated attempts he succeeded. +Then for the first time he observed that his hands were covered with +blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining the back of it, +detected a great jagged wound. "Looks bad, bad." He felt the bone +carefully and shook his head. "Fracture, I fear." Heating some more +water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he spent +in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing every +precious moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began +to come slowly back. "Now I must get him to the hospital." + +There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and +there were no portages. With swift despatch he cut a large armful +of balsam boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his +canoe, cutting out the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and +picking his steps with great care, he carried him to the canoe and +laid him upon the balsam boughs on his right side. The moment the +weight came upon that side a groan burst from the pallid lips. +"Something wrong there," muttered the doctor, turning him slightly +over. "Ah, shoulder out. I'll just settle this right now." By +dexterous manipulation the dislocation was reduced, and at once the +patient sank down upon the bed of boughs and lay quite still. A +little further stimulation brought back the heart to a steadier +beat. "Now, my boy," he said to himself, as he took his place +kneeling in the stern of the canoe, "give her every ounce you +have." For half an hour without pause, except twice to give his +patient stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept +their rhythmic swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe and +in a minute more was at the Landing. + +"Duprez! Here, quick!" The doctor stood in the door of the +stopping place, wet as if he had come from the river, his voice +raucous and his face white. + +"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Frenchman, "what de mattaire?" + +The doctor swept a glance about the room. "Sick man," he said +briefly. "I want this bed. Get your buckboard, quick." He seized +the bed and carried it out before the eyes of the astonished +Duprez. + +Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time +the bed had been arranged on the buckboard he had his horse between +the shafts. + +"Now then, Duprez, give me a hand," said the doctor. + +"Certainment. Bon Dieu! Dat's de bon preechere! Not dead, heh?" + +"No," said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face while +he placed his fingers upon the pulse. "No. Now get on. Drive +carefully, but make time." + +In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, +which was well graded and smooth. Duprez sent along his pony at a +lope and in a short space of time they reached the door of the +hospital, where they were met by Orderly Ben Fallows on duty. + +"Barney! By the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" cried Ben. "What on +earth--" + +But the doctor cut him short. "Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get +a bed ready with warm blankets and hot water bottles. Go, man! +Don't gape there!" + +Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up +the stair as fast as his wooden leg would allow him. He reached +the office door. "Miss Margaret," he gasped, "Barney's at the door +with a sick man. Wants a bed ready. We 'aven't got one--and--" + +The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words. +"Barney?" she said, rising slowly to her feet. "Barney?" she said +again, her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. "What do you +mean, Ben?" The words came slowly. + +"He wants a bed for a sick man and we 'aven't--" + +Margaret took a step toward him. "Ben," she said, in breathless +haste, "get my room ready. But first tell Nurse Crane to come to +me quick. Go, Ben." + +The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands +she shut the door, turned toward her desk, and there stood, both +hands pressed hard to her heart, fighting hard to control the +tumultuous tides that surged through her heart and thundered in her +ears. "Barney! Barney!" she whispered. "Oh, Barney, at last!" +The blue eyes were wide open and all aglow with the tender light of +her great love. "Barney," she said over and over, "my love, my +love, my--ah, not mine--" A sob caught her voice. Over her desk +hung a copy of Hoffman's great picture, the Christ kneeling in +Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. "O Christ!" she cried +brokenly, "I, too! Help me!" A knock came to the door, Nurse +Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned toward her desk again. + +"Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient," said the nurse. + +"Dr. Bailey?" echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her trembling +hands fluttering among the papers on the desk. "Go to him, Nurse, +and get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment." + +Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the +Christ, the words of the great submission ringing through the +chambers of her soul. "Not my will but Thine be done." She +pressed nearer the picture, gazing into that strong, patient, +suffering face through the rain of welcome tears. "O Christ!" she +whispered, "dear blessed Christ! I understand--now. Help me! +Help me!" Then, after a pause, "Not my will! Not my will!" + +The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood +in the corner of her office, bathed her eyes, smoothed away the +signs of struggle from her face, and went forth serene to her duty +and her cross. In the hall she met Barney. With a quick, light +step she was at his side, both hands stretched out. "Barney!" +"Margaret!" was all they said. For a moment or two Barney stood +holding her hands, gazing without a word into the sweet face, so +pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong. Twice he essayed to speak, +but the words choked in his throat. Turning abruptly away he +pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on the camp bed. + +"I've brought--you--Dick," at last he said hoarsely. + +"Dick! Hurt? Not--" She halted before the dreaded word. + +"No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope--" + +"The room is ready," said Nurse Crane. + +At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate +demands of their common duty. They had work to do, and they had +trained themselves to obey without thought of self that Divine call +to serve the suffering. Together they toiled at their work, +Margaret noting with delighted wonder the quick fingers and the +finished skill that cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in +the head and made thorough examination for other injury or ill, +Barney keenly conscious of the efficiency of the silent, steady +helper at his side whose quick eye and hand anticipated his every +want. At length their work was done and they stood looking down +upon the haggard face. + +"He is resting now," said Barney, in a low voice. "The fracture is +not serious, I think." + +"Poor Dick," said Margaret, passing her hand over his brow. + +At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney +quickly stepped back out of sight. For a moment or two the eyes +wandered about the room, then rested on Margaret's face in a +troubled, inquiring gaze. + +"What is it, Dick, dear?" said Margaret, bending over him. + +For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if +seeking something. + +"I know. The letter, Dick?" A look of intelligence lighted the +eye. "That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to Barney. Barney +is here, you know." + +A hand grasped her arm. "Hush!" said Barney in stern command. +"Say nothing about me." But she heeded him not. For a moment +longer the sick man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of +content overspread the drawn features, then the look of intelligence +faded and the eyes closed wearily. + +"Come," said Barney, moving toward the door, "he is better quiet." + +Leaving the nurse in charge, they went together toward the office. + +"Where did you find him?" asked Margaret as she gave Barney a seat. +Then Barney told her the story of how he had chanced upon the canoe +and had discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods. + +"It was God's leading, Barney," said Margaret gently, when the +story was done; but to this he made no reply. "Is there serious +danger, do you think?" she inquired in an anxious voice. + +"He will recover," replied Barney. "All he requires is careful +nursing, and that you can give him. I shall wait till to-morrow." + +"To-morrow? And then?" + +"I am leaving this country next week." + +"Leaving the country? And why?" + +"My work here is done." + +"Surely there is much yet to do, and you have just begun to do such +great things. Why should you leave now?" + +Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pondering an answer. +"Margaret, I must go," he finally burst forth. "You know I must +go. I can't live within touch of him and forget!" + +"Forgive, you mean, Barney." + +"Well, forgive, if you like," he replied sullenly. + +"Barney," replied Margaret earnestly, "this is unworthy of you, and +in the face of God's mercy to-day how can you hold resentment in +your heart?" + +"How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three years I have +fought it, but it is there. It is there!" He struck his hand hard +upon his breast. "I can't forget that he ruined my life! But for +him I believe in my soul I should have won--her to me! At a +critical moment he came in and ruined--" + +"Barney! Barney, listen to me!" cried Margaret impetuously. + +Barney sprang to his feet. + +"No, you must listen to me. Sit down." Barney obeyed her word and +sat down. "Now, hear me, and hear me fairly. I am not going to +say that Dick was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was +the greater I can't tell. They were both young and, to a certain +extent, inexperienced in the ways of life. Circumstances threw +them much together and on terms of almost brotherly and sisterly +intimacy. That was a mistake. They ignored conventions that can +never be safely ignored. Just at that time Dick's life was made +hard for him. His Church had rejected him." + +"Rejected him?" + +"Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was +branded as a heretic and outcast from work." Margaret's voice grew +bitter. "Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not +help it--I can't say--but he grew hard. Yes, and worse than that, +grew away from his faith, from his friends, and from those things +that keep men straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of +temptation came upon him. You and I have seen enough of that side +of life to know what that means. He broke faith with you--no, not +with you. He was loyal to you, but he broke faith with himself and +with her. For a single moment, that moment at which you appeared, +he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, has he suffered +since that moment. How terribly no one knows. He has tried to +find you, but you would not be found. He wronged you, Barney, but +you have made him and all of us suffer much." The voice that had +gone on so bravely and so firmly here suddenly trembled and broke. + +"Made you suffer!" cried Barney, with bitter scorn. "How can you +speak of suffering? You have everything! I have lost all!" + +"Everything?" echoed Margaret faintly. "Ah, Barney, how little you +know! But, no matter, God has brought you together and you must +not do this wicked thing. You must not continue to break our +hearts." + +"Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a +heart, too, and a brother whom I loved and trusted as myself, yes, +more than myself, and--I had--Iola. All I have lost. My work +satisfies me for a few months, but try as I can this awful thing +hunts me down and drives me mad. There is nothing in life left for +me. And there might have been much but for--" + +"Stop, Barney!" cried Margaret impulsively. "There is much still +left for you. God is good. How much better than we. You can't +forgive a fellow-sinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, +and surely you ought to try--" + +"Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't +tried? That thing is there! there!" smiting on his breast again. +"Can you tell me how to rid myself of it?" + +"Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do +this for you. Listen," she said, putting up her hand to stay his +words, "God is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to +soften you. Here, read this." She handed him Iola's letter, went +to the window, and stood with her back to him, looking out upon the +great sweeping valley below. + +"Margaret!" The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, +proud, sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His lips were +quivering, his hands trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. +"Margaret," he cried brokenly, "what does this mean?" He was +terribly shaken. + +"It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going +to-morrow to bring her back to you, Barney. That was his one +desire." + +"To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old +boy! and I-- Oh, Margaret!" He put his trembling hands out to +her. "Forgive me! God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!" He +started toward the door. "No, not how," he cried, striving in vain +to control himself. "I am mad! mad! For three long years I have +carried this cursed thing in my heart! It's gone! It's gone, +Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!" He was shouting aloud. "I +feel right toward Dick, my brother!" + +"Hush, Barney dear," said the girl, tears running down her face, +"you will wake him." + +"Yes, yes," he cried, in an eager whisper, "I'll be careful. Poor +old boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick! And she wants me! +I'll go to-night! Yes, to-night! What's the date?" He tore at +the envelope with trembling hands. The letter dropped to the +floor. Margaret caught it up and opened it for him. "A month ago +and more! Yes, I'll go to-night. Oh, Margaret, what a blasted +fool I am! I can't get myself in hand." Suddenly he threw himself +into his chair. "Here!" he ground out between his teeth, "get +quiet!" He sat for a few moments absolutely still, gathering +strength to command himself. At length he got himself in hand. +"No," he said in a quiet voice, "I shall not go tonight. I shall +wait till Dick is better. Just now he must be kept quiet. In the +morning I expect to see him very much himself. We can only wait +and see." + +Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold +himself in perfect control, Margaret quietly doing what was to be +done, her whole spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love which +finds its highest joy in the joy of another. At the break of day +the nurse came to the door and found them still waiting. + +"Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss Robertson." + +"Let me go to him," cried Barney. "Don't fear." His voice was +still vibrating, but his manner was calm and steady. He was master +of himself again. + +"Yes," said Margaret, "go to him." Then as the door closed she +stood once more before the Gethsemane scene. "Thank God, thank +God," she said softly, "for them the pain is over." + +For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She +opened the door softly, went in and stood gazing till her eyes grew +dim. On the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, +whose arm was thrown about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face +shone a look of rapturous peace. As Margaret moved to leave the +room Dick called her in a voice faint, but full of joy. + +"Margaret," he said, a smile breaking like light through a dark +cloud, "my head was broken, but I'd have all the bones in my body +broken, just to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?" + +Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, but radiant with +a peace it had not known for many a day. "Yes, old chap," he said +in a voice still tremulous in spite of all his self-command, "we're +right again, and, please God, we'll keep so." + + + +XXI + +TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST + + +For three days Dick made steady progress toward health, but his +progress was slow. Any mental effort produced severe pain in his +head and sufficed to raise his temperature several points. As he +gained in strength and became more and more clear in his thinking +his anxiety in regard to his work began to increase. His +congregations would be waiting him on Sunday, and he could not bear +to think of their being disappointed. With no small effort had he +gathered them together, and a single failure on his part he knew +would have disastrous effect upon the attendance. He was +especially concerned about the service at Bull Crossing, which was +at once the point where the work was the most difficult, and, at +the present juncture, most encouraging. Under his instructions +Barney sought to secure a substitute for the service at Bull +Crossing, but without result. Preachers were scarce in that +country and every preacher had more work in sight than he could +overtake. And so Dick fretted and wrought himself into a fever, +until the doctor took him sternly to task. + +"I don't see that it's your business to worry, Dick," he said. "I +suppose you consider yourself as working under orders, and it is +your belief, isn't it, that the One who gives the orders is the One +who has laid you down here?" + +"That's true," said Dick wearily, "but there's the people. A lot +of them come a long way. It's been hard to get them together, and +I hate to disappoint them." + +"Well, we'll get someone," replied Barney. "We're a pretty hard +combination to beat, aren't we, Margaret? There will be a man to +take the service at Bull Crossing if I have to take it myself--a +desperate resort, indeed." + +"Why not, Barney?" asked Dick. "You could do it well." + +"What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk a little with my +fingers, but my tongue is unconscionably slow." + +"There was a man once slow of speech," replied Dick quietly, "but +he was given a message and he led a nation into freedom." + +Barney nodded. "I remember him. But he could do things." + +"No," answered Dick, "but he believed God could do things." + +"Perhaps so. That was rather long ago." + +"With God," replied Dick earnestly, "there is no such thing as long +ago." + +"All the same," said Barney, "I guess these things don't happen +now." + +"I believe they happen," replied his brother, "where God finds a +man who will take his life in his hand and go." + +"Well, I don't know about that," replied Barney, "but I do know +that you must quit talking and sleep. Now, hear me, drop that +meeting out of your mind. I'll look after it." + +But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, +he found no one for the service at Bull Crossing next day. There +was still a slight hope that one of the officials of the +congregation would consent to be a stop-gap for the day. + +"I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret," said +Barney laughingly. "Wouldn't the crowd stare? They'd hear the +sermon of their lives." + +"It would be a good sermon, Barney," replied Margaret quietly. +"And why should you not say something to the men?" + +"Nonsense, Margaret!" cried Barney impatiently. "You know the +thing is utterly absurd. What sort of man am I to preach? A +gambler, a swearer, and generally bad. They all know me." + +"They know only a part of you, Barney," said Margaret gently. "God +knows all of you, and whatever you have been you are no gambler +today, and you are not a bad man." + +"No," replied Barney slowly, "I am no gambler, nor will I ever be +again. But I have been a hard, bad man. For three years I carried +hate in my heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be +forgiven. And that, I believe, was the cause of all my badness. +But--somehow--I don't deserve it--but I've been awfully well +treated. I deserved hell, but I've got a promise of heaven. And +I'd be glad to do something for--" He paused abruptly. + +"There, you've got your sermon, Barney," said Margaret. + +"What do you mean?" + +"'Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'" + +"It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me +to preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll get one of those +fellows at the Crossing to take the meeting." + +On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the subject. + +"I'm not anxious, Barney," he said, "but who's going to take the +meeting to-morrow night at Bull Crossing?" + +"Now, look here," said Barney, "Monday morning you'll hear all +about it. Meantime, don't ask questions. Margaret and I are +responsible, and that ought to be enough. You never knew her to +fail." + +"No, nor you, Barney," said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of +satisfaction. "I know it will be all right. Are you going down +to-morrow evening?" he inquired, turning to Margaret. + +"I?" exclaimed Margaret. "What would I do?" + +"Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good," said +Barney. "You may have to preach yourself or hold my coat while I +go in." + +A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, +and the quick following pallor told Dick the thoughts that rushed +through Margaret's heart. + +"Yes," said Dick gravely, "you will go down, too, Margaret. It +will do you good, and I don't need you here." + +Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he +found himself so utterly blocked by unmanageable circumstances and +uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. +He confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in +"Mexico's" saloon toning up his system after his long illness, and +whom he had straightway carried off with him. + +"I guess it's either you or me, Tommy." + +"Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an' divil a wan av the +bhoys will 'Mexico' git this night, wance the news gits about." + +"Don't talk rot, Tommy," said Barney angrily, for the chance of his +being forced to take his brother's place, which all along had +seemed to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With +the energy of desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon +visiting, explaining, urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of the +members or adherents of the congregation at Bull Crossing in whom +might be supposed to dwell the faintest echo of the spirit of the +preacher. One after another, however, those upon whom he had built +his hopes failed him. One was out of town, another he found sick +in bed, and a third refused point blank to consider the request, so +that within a few minutes of the hour of service he found himself +without a preacher and wholly desperate, and for the first time he +seriously faced the possibility of having to take the service +himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's +parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and abruptly announced to +her his failure. + +"Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You +know, I can't," he repeated, in answer to the look upon her face. +"Why, it was only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of +hundred. He would give a good deal more to get even. The crowd +would hoot me out of the building. Not that I care for that"--the +long jaws came hard together--"but it's just too ghastly to think +of." + +"It isn't so very terrible, Barney," said Margaret, her voice and +eyes uniting in earnest persuasion. "You are not the man you were +last week. You know you are not. You are quite different, and you +will be different all your life. A great change has come to you. +What made the change? You know it was God's great mercy that took +the bitterness out of your heart and that changed everything. +Can't you tell them this?" + +"Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that? +What would they say?" + +"Barney," asked Margaret, "you are not afraid of them? You are not +ashamed to tell what you owe to God?" + +Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not +afraid, but his native diffidence, intensified by these recent +years of self-repression and self-absorption, had made all speech +difficult to him, but more especially speech that revealed the +deeper movements of his soul. + +"No, Margaret, I'm not afraid," he said slowly. "But I'd rather +have them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit than get up and +speak to them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, +Margaret? How can I do that?" + +"All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course," she +replied. "But you will tell them just what you will." + +With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a +desperate fight. His word passed to his brother must be kept. But +soon a deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His +sense of loyalty was touched. He knew himself to be a different +man from the man who, last week, in "Mexico's" saloon, had beaten +his old antagonist at the old game. His consciousness of himself, +of his life purposes, of his outlook, of his deepest emotions, was +altogether a different consciousness. And more than all, that +haunting, pursuing restlessness was gone and, in its place, a deep +peace possessed him. The process by which this had been achieved +he could not explain, but the result was undeniable, and it was +due, he knew, to an influence the source of which he frankly +acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of the beaten +and confounded pagan magic-workers came to him, "This is the finger +of God." He could not deny it. Why should he wish to hide it? It +became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, +that there was a demand being made upon him as a man of truth and +honour, and as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility +of his refusing the demand presented itself to his mind, there +flashed in upon him the picture of a man standing in the midst of +enemies, the flickering firelight showing his face vacillating, +terror-stricken, hunted. From the trembling lips of the man he +heard the words of base denial, "I know not the man," and in his +heart there rose a cry, "O Christ! shall I do this?" "No," came the +answer, strong and clear, from his lips, "I will not do this thing, +so help me God." + +Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. "You +won't?" she said faintly. + +"I'll take the service," he replied, setting the long jaws firmly +together. And with that they went forth to the hall. + +They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through +Tommy Tate it had been noised abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach. +There were wild rumors, too, that the doctor had "got religion," +although "Mexico" and his friends scouted the idea as utterly +impossible. + +"He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve," was "Mexico's" +verdict, given with a full accompaniment of finished profanity. + +Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound +impression and to awaken an expectation that rose to fever pitch +when Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took +their places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played +himself, and Barney at the table upon which were the Bible and the +Hymn-book. His face wore the impenetrable, death-like mark which +had so often baffled "Mexico" and his gang over the poker table. +It fascinated "Mexico" now. All the years of his wicked manhood +"Mexico" had, on principle, avoided anything in the shape of a +religious meeting, but to-day the attraction of a poker player +preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small surprise that +the crowd saw "Mexico," with two or three of his gang, make their +way toward the front to the only seats left vacant. + +When it became evident beyond dispute that his old-time enemy was +to take the preacher's place, "Mexico" leaned over to his pal, +"Peachy" Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in +an undertone audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, "It's +his old game. He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got the +cards." + +But painful experience shook "Peachy's" confidence in his friend's +judgment on this particular point, and he only ventured to reply, +"He's got the lead." "Peachy" preferred to await developments. + +The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fervour that marks the +musical part of any religious service in the West. But there was +in the voices that curious thrill that is at once the indication +and the quickening of intense excitement. + +"This here'll show what's in his hand," said "Peachy," when the +moment for prayer arrived. "Peachy" was not unfamiliar with +religious services, and had, with unusual keenness of observation, +noted that when a man undertook to pray he must, if he be true, +reveal the soul within him. + +"Mexico" grunted a dubious affirmative. But "Peachy" was +disappointed, for in a voice reverent, but unimpassioned, the +preacher for the day led the people's devotions, using the great +words taught those men long ago who knew not how to pray, "Our +Father who art in Heaven." + +"Blanked if he ain't bluffed again! We've got to wait till he +begins to shoot, I guess," said "Peachy," mixing his figures. + +The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving debtor and the +parallel passage containing the matchless story of the sinful woman +and the proud Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, +which had hitherto carried the strident note of nervousness, +mellowed into rich and subduing fulness. The men listened with +that hushed attention that they give when words are getting to the +heart. The utter simplicity of the reader's manner, the dignity of +his bearing, the quiet strength that showed itself in every tone, +and the undercurrent of emotion that made the voice vibrate like a +stringed instrument, all these, with the marvellous authoritative +tenderness of the great utterance on a theme so closely touching +their daily experience, gripped these men and held them in complete +thrall. + +When the reading was done the doctor stood for some moments looking +his audience quietly in the face. He knew them all, men from the +camps and the line, men from the hills and mining claims, men from +the saloons and the gambling hells. Many he had treated +professionally, some he had himself nursed back to health, others +he had rescued from those desperate moods that end in death. +Others again--and these not a few--he had "cleaned out" at poker or +"Black Jack." But to all of them he was "white." Not so to +himself. It was a very humble man and a very penitent, that stood +looking them in the face. His first words were a confession. + +"I am not worthy to stand here before you," he began, in a low, +clear tone, "God knows, you know, and I know. I am here for two +reasons: one is that I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard +Boyle"--here a gasp of surprise was audible from one and another in +the audience--"a man you know to be a good man, better than ever I +can hope to be." + +"Durned if he is!" grunted "Peachy" to "Mexico." "Ain't in the +same bunch!" + +"An' that's thrue fer ye," answered Tommy. But "Mexico" paid no +heed to these remarks. He was staring at the speaker with the look +of a man wholly bewildered. + +"And the other reason is," continued, the doctor, "that I have +something which I think it fair to tell you men. Like a lot of +you, I have carried a name that is not my own." Here significant +looks were gravely exchanged. "They gave it to me by mistake when +I reached the Pass. I didn't care much at that time about names or +anything else, so I let it go. There are times in a fellow's life +when he's not unwilling to forget his name. My name is Boyle." +And then, in sentences simple, clean-cut, and terse, he told of his +boyhood days, the Old Mill, the two boys growing up together, their +love for and their loyalty to each other, their struggles and their +success. Then came a pause. The speaker had obviously come to a +difficult spot in his story. The men waited in earnest, grave, and +deeply moved expectation. "At that time a great calamity came to +me--no matter what--and it threw me clear off my balance. I lost +my head and lost my nerve, and just then--" again the speaker +paused, as if to gather strength to continue--"and just then my +brother did me a wrong. Not being in a condition to judge fairly, +I magnified the wrong a thousand-fold and I tried to tear my +brother out of my heart. I could not and I would not forgive him, +and I couldn't cease to love him. I lived a life of misery, misery +so great that it drove me from everything in earth that I held +dear, and for three years I went steadily down from bad to worse. +I came to the Crow's Nest a year and a half ago. My life since +then most of you know well." + +"Bedad we do! An' Hivin bliss ye!" burst forth Tommy Tate, who had +found the greatest difficulty in controlling his emotions of +indignation and grief during the doctor's self-condemnatory tale. +At Tommy's words a quiet thrill ran through the crowd, for few men +of those present but held the doctor in affectionate esteem. The +sins of which he was conscious and which humiliated him before them +were, in their estimation, but trivial. + +For a moment the speaker was thrown off his track by Tommy's +outburst, but, recovering himself, he went on. "It would be wrong +to say that my life here has been all bad. I have been able to +serve many of you, but my work has done far more for me than it has +for you. But for it I should have long ago gone down out of sight. +I confess that it has been a hard fight for me, an awful fight, to +stay at my work, but the day that I heard that my brother was your +missionary brought me the hardest fight I had had for many a day. +I wanted to get away from the past. For nearly four years I had +been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I had begun to forget +a little, but that day it all came back. This week I met my +brother. I found him dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn +Valley. That morning my heart carried hell in it. To-day it is +like what I think heaven must be." As he spoke these words a light +broke over his face, and again he stood silent, striving to regain +control of his voice. + +"Blanked if he don't hold the cards!" said "Mexico" in a thick +voice to "Peachy" Budd. + +"Full flush," answered "Peachy." + +"Mexico" was in the grasp of the elemental emotions of his +untutored nature. His swarthy face was twisted like the face of a +man in torture. His black eyes were gleaming like two fires from +under his shaggy eyebrows. + +"How it came about," continued the doctor, in a quiet, even tone, +"I am not going to tell. But this I am going to say, I know it was +God's great mercy, His great kindness it was that took the hate out +of my heart. I forgave my brother that day--and--God forgave me. +That's all there is to it. It's the biggest thing that has ever +come to me. I have got my brother back just as when we were little +chaps at the Old Mill." A sudden choke caught the speaker's voice. +The firm lips quivered and the strong hands writhed themselves in a +mighty effort to master the emotions surging through his soul. + +Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his eyes. "Peachy" Budd +was swearing audibly his emotions, but, most of all, "Mexico's" +swarthy face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had +grasped the back of the seat before him and was leaning toward the +speaker as if held under an hypnotic spell. + +Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went on. "I have just +a word more to say. I would like to give credit for this that +happened to me to the One we have been reading about this +afternoon, and I do so with all my heart. I came near being coward +enough and mean enough to go away without owning this up before +you. How He did it, I do not pretend to know. I'm not a preacher. +But He did it, and that's what chiefly concerns me. And what He +did for me I guess He can do for any of you. And now I've got to +square up some things. 'Mexico'--" At the sound of his name +"Mexico" started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, with +a quick motion, toward his hip--"I've taken a lot from you. I'd +like to pay it back." The voice was humble, earnest, kind. + +"Mexico," taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco to the other side +of his mouth, stood up and drawled out, "Haow? Me? Pay me back? +Blanked if you do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it?" + +"Yes, I played fair, 'Mexico,' but--" + +"Then go to hell!" "Mexico's" tone was not at all unfriendly, but +his vocabulary was limited, and he was evidently deeply stirred. +"We're squar' an'--an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put +it thar!" With a single stride "Mexico" was over the seat that +separated him from the platform and reached out his hand. The +doctor took it in a hard grip. + +"Look here, men," he said, when "Mexico" had resumed his seat, +"I've got to do something with this money. I've got at least five +thousand that don't belong to me." + +"'Tain't ours," called a voice. + +"Men," continued the doctor, "I'm starting out on a new track. I +want to straighten out the past all I can. I can't keep this +money. I'd feel like a thief." + +But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and one and all +protested to each other, in tones that were quite audible over the +hall and with anathemas of more or less terrible import, that the +money was not theirs and that they would not touch it. The doctor +listened for a minute or more and then, with the manner of one +closing a discussion, he said, "All right. If you won't help me +I'll have to find some way, myself, of straightening this up. This +is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and I'm not any better than +the rest of you, but I'd like to be a great deal better man than I +am, and, with God's help, I'm going to try. That's my religion." + +And with these words he sat down, leaving the people still staring +at him and waiting for something in the way of closing exercises to +what must have been the most extraordinary religious service in all +their experience. Softly, Margaret began to play the old hymn, +"Nearer, My God, to Thee!" The men, accepting it as a signal, rose +to their feet and began to sing, and with these great words of +aspiration ringing through their hearts they passed out into the +night. + +Among the many who lingered to speak to the doctor were "Mexico," +"Peachy," and, of course, his faithful follower, Tommy Tate. +"Mexico" drew him off to one corner. + +"Say, pard," he began, "you've done me up many a time before, but +blanked if yeh haven't hit me this time the worst yet! When you +was talkin' about them two little chaps--" here "Mexico's" hard +face began to work and his voice to quiver--"you put the knife +right in here. I had a brother once," he continued in a husky +voice. "I wish to God someone had choked the blank nonsense out of +me, for I done him a wrong an' I wasn't man enough to own up. An' +that's what started me in all this hell business I've been chasin' +ever since." + +The doctor took him by the arm and walked him out of the room. +"Take Miss Robertson home," he said to Tommy as he passed. + +An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly exhausted as his iron +nerve and muscle would allow him to be. "I say, Margaret, this +thing is wonderful! There's no explaining it by any physical or +mental law that I know." Then, after a pause, he added, with an +odd thrill of tenderness in his voice, "I believe we shall hear +good things of 'Mexico' yet." + +And so they did, but that is another tale. + + + +XXII + +THE HEART'S REST + + +There is no sweeter spot in all the west Highlands of Scotland than +the valley that runs back from that far penetrating arm of the sea, +Loch Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after a succession of wild and +gloomy glens, one comes upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from +the east and north winds and open to the warm western sea and to +the long sunny days of summer. It is a valley full of balmy airs, +fragrant with the scents of sea and heather, and shut in from the +roar and rush of the great world, just over the ragged rim of the +craggy hills that guard it. A veritable heaven on earth for the +nerve-racked and brain-wearied, for the heart-sick and soul- +burdened; for it was the pleasure of the lady of Ruthven Hall, a +kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the valley's head, to +bring hither such of her friends or her friends' friends as needed +the healing that soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours +filled with love that understands, can give. + +To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been brought, a girl fresh +from the shelter of her English home, the bride of Sir Hector +Ruthven; and here for five happy summers they had come from the +strenuous life of Diplomatic Service to find rest. Here, too, came +Sir Hector, when his work was done, still a young man, to rest +under the yews in the little churchyard near the Hall, leaving his +lady with her little daughter and her infant son to administer his +vast estates. After the first sharp grief had passed, Lady Ruthven +took up her burden and, with patient courage, bore it for the sake +of the dead first, and then for the sake of the living. Round her +son, growing into sturdy young manhood, her heart's roots wound +themselves, striking deep into his life, till one day he, too, was +laid beneath the yew trees in the churchyard. From that deep +shadow she came forth, bearing her cross of service to her kind, to +live a life fragrant with the airs of Heaven, in fellowship with +Him who, for love of man, daily gave Himself to die. + +It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist and poet, pure of +heart and clean of life, that Jack Charrington came to know Ruthven +Hall and its dwellers. The young men first met in London, and +later in Edinburgh, where both were pursuing their professions with +a devotion that did not forbid attention to sundry social duties, +or prevent them from taking long walks over the Lammermuirs on +Saturday afternoons. To Ruthven Hall, Alan was permitted to bring +his young Canadian friend, who, he was secretly convinced, stood +sorely in need of just such benediction as his saintly aunt could +bestow. The day of Jack Charrington's coming to Ruthven Hall was +the birthday of his better life, when he had a vision of his +profession in the light of that great ministry to the world's sick +and wounded and weary by Him who came to the world "to heal." In +another sense, too, it was for him the beginning of days, for it +was the day on which his eyes first fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie +Ruthven. Thenceforth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven +Hall, and thus it fell that when, on one of his visits to the great +metropolis, he found Iola exhausted after her season's triumphs and +forbidden to sing again for a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, +he bethought him of the little valley of rest in the far western +Highlands. Straightway he confided to Lady Ruthven his concern for +his co-patriot and friend, giving as much of her story as he +thought it well that both Lady Ruthven and her daughter should +know. Hence, when they went north to their Highland valley again, +they carried with them Iola, to be rested and nursed, and to be +healed in heart, too, if that could be. For Lady Ruthven, with her +eyes made keen by grief and love, had not been long in discovering +that, with Iola, the deeper sickness was that which no physician's +medicine can reach. + +Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health +to their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most +tender nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning. + +"She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this +terrible restlessness," said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was +visiting at the Hall. + +"Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, "but not altogether, I +fear. This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser +out again. But if we only could get track of Boyle it would +greatly help. She wrote yesterday to her great friend, Miss +Robertson, who, more than anyone, has kept in touch with him." + +"Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, "would you advise that +he should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being +perfectly disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you +know." + +"Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but--" + +"You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think +of a girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of +her, as from what you have told me of him he must be." + +"Unworthy!" cried Jack. "Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends +upon what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but +he's a man through and through, and he's clean and honourable." + +"Ah," said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, "then would to Heaven +she could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her +bones." + +"At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter." + +And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the +other in providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, +fevered girl. Often, at the first, the old impatience would break +out, mostly in her talk with Charrington, at rare times to her +hostess, too, but at such times followed by quick penitence. + +"Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after one of her little +outbreaks, "I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so +perfectly self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. +You must have been born good and sweet." + +For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back +swiftly to long gone years. "No, dear," she said gently; "I have +much to be thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, +but He was patient and bore long with me. And He is still +bearing." + +"Tell me how you learned," asked Iola timidly, and then Lady +Ruthven told her life story, without tears, without repinings, +while Iola wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the +influence of it never departed from her. Never were the days quite +so bad again, but every day while she struggled to subdue her +impatience even in thought, she kept looking for word from across +the sea with a longing so intense that all in the house came to +share it with her. + +"Oh! if we only knew where to get him!" groaned Jack Charrington to +her one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her happy +past, she had opened her heart. "Why does he keep away?" he added +bitterly. + +"It is my fault, Jack," she replied. "He is not to blame. No one +is to blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure he +will come, I only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve +if--" + +"Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You +are getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly." + +"Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling to grieve him. "I +would like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am sure +to hear soon now." + +They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger +wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching. + +"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "there it is!" + +"Come, Iola," said Jack, almost sternly, "come in and sit down." +So saying, he brought her into the library and made her recline +upon the couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of +her waking hours were spent. + +It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the +library. "Shall I open it?" he asked, with an anxious look at +Iola. + +"Yes," she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart. + +Lady Ruthven came to her side. "Iola, darling," she said, taking +both her hands in hers, "it is good to feel that God's arms are +about us always." + +"Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, regaining her +composure; "I'm learning. I'm not afraid." + +Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She +read the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, +lay back upon her couch. "God is good," she whispered, as Lady +Ruthven bent over her. "You were right. Teach me how to trust Him +better." + +"Are you all right, Iola?" said Jack, anxiously feeling her pulse. + +"Quite right, Jack, dear," she said. + +"Then hooray!" cried Jack, starting up. "Let's see, 'Coming +Silurian seventh. Barney.'" he read aloud. "The seventh was +yesterday. Six days. She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be +here by Monday at latest." + +"Saturday, Jack," said Iola, opening her eyes. + +"Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. +Meantime, you're not to fret." And he frowned sternly down upon +her. + +"Fret?" she cried, looking up brightly. "Never more, Jack. I +shall never fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for +these five days, every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me +well." + +It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every +hour, every minute, she appeared to gain strength. She ate with +relish and slept like a child. The old feverish restlessness left +her, and she laid aside many of her invalid ways. + +"You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I suppose, Charrington?" +said Alan on Thursday, after the Silurian had been reported. + +"I've just been thinking," replied Jack, with careful deliberation, +"that it would be almost better you should go, Ruthven. You see +you're the man of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger +to tell him." + +"Come, Charrington," replied his friend, "you don't often play the +coward. You've simply got to go. But why should you tell?" + +"Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce +Fraser's he would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly words yet, +'Quite hopeless. Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long +delayed.' I say, old man, I suppose I ought to go, but you've got +to come along and make talk. I'll simply blubber right out when I +see him. You know I'm awfully fond of the old boy." + +"I say, Charrington, I've got it! Take my aunt with you." + +Jack gasped. "By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but +she's the saintly kind that delights to bear other people's +burdens." + +And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the +boat and bring Barney, with all speed, to Ruthven Hall. + + +At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with +outstretched hands, crying, "Barney, old boy, we're glad to see +you! Here, let me present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola +is staying." With feverish haste he hurried Barney through the +crowds, bustling hither and thither about his luggage and giving +himself not a moment for conversation till they were seated in the +first-class apartment carriage that was to carry them to +Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled in their places when +the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, dropped to +silence. + +"You have bad news for me," said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven +steadily in the face. "Has anything happened?" + +"No, Dr. Boyle," replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly than +was her wont, "but--" and here she paused, shrinking from +delivering the mortal stab, "but we are anxious about our dear +Iola." + +"Tell me the worst, Lady Ruthven," said Barney. + +"That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and +her heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful. It is better +she should be kept so." + +Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of +their deep sockets with the piteous, mute appeal of an animal +stricken to death. He moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, +failing, kept his eyes fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking +relief. Charrington turned his head away. + +"We feel thankful for her great courage," said Lady Ruthven, in her +sweet, calm voice, "and for her peace of mind." + +At last Barney found his voice. "Does she suspect anything?" he +asked hoarsely. + +"I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager +all summer to get back to her home--to you--to those she loved. +She will rejoice to see you." + +Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long +moan. Jack looked out upon the fleeting landscape dimmed by the +tears he dared not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop +by drop, Barney drank his cup to the bitter dregs. + +"We try to think of the bright side," at length said Lady Ruthven +gently. + +Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at her in dumb +misery. + +"There is the bright side," she continued, "the side of the +immortal hope. We like to think of the better country. That is +our real home. There, only, are our treasures safe." She was +giving him time to get hold of himself after the first deadly stab. +But Barney made no reply except to gravely bow. "It is, indeed, a +better country," she added softly as if to herself, "the only place +we immortals can call home." Then she rose. "Come, Jack," she +said, "I think Dr. Boyle would like to be alone." Before she +turned away to another section of the carriage, she offered him her +hand with a grave, pitying smile. + +Barney bowed reverently over her hand. "I am grateful to you," he +said brokenly, "believe me." His face was contorted with the agony +that filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her +speechless and in silence they turned away from him, and for the +long hour that followed they left him with his grief. + +When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, +carrying the air of one who has fought his fight and has not been +altogether beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the +great door of Ruthven Hall. + +"Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room," said Lady Ruthven; "I +shall see Iola and send for him." But just then her daughter came +down the stairs. "Mamma," she said in a low, quick tone, "she +wants him at once." + +"Yes, dear, I know," replied her mother, "but it will be better +that I--" + +But there was a light cry, "Barney!" and, looking up, they all saw, +standing at the head of the great staircase, a figure slight and +frail, but radiant. It was Iola. + +"Pardon me, Lady Ruthven," said Barney, and was off three steps at +a time. + +"Come, children." Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the +library that opened off the hall, where they stood gazing at each +other, awed and silent. + +"Heaven help them!" at length gasped Jack. + +"Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington," said Miss Ruthven. "You are +hurting me." + +"Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than +I can well stand." + +"It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington," said +Lady Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that subdued all emotion and +recalled them to self-control. "You will see that Dr. Boyle gets +to his room?" + +"I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later," replied +Jack. "Yes, I confess," he continued, answering Miss Ruthven's +look, "I am a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes things +tremendously. He was quite mad about her years ago, fiercely mad +about her, and when the break came it almost ruined him. How he +will stand this, I don't know, but I am afraid to see him." + +"This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven," said Alan. +"It should not be prolonged, do you think?" + +"It is well that they should be alone for a time," she replied, her +own experience making her wise in the ways of the breaking heart. + +When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs +Iola moved toward him with arms upraised. "Barney! Barney! Have +you come to me at last?" she cried. + +A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. +He took her gently into his arms and, restraining his passionate +longing to crush her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, +tenderly, gazing into her glowing, glorious eyes the while. +"Where?" he murmured. + +"This door, Barney." + +He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a +couch he found there. Then, without a word, he put his cheek close +to hers upon the pillow, murmuring over and over, "Iola--Iola--my +love--my love!" + +"Why, Barney," she cried, with a little happy laugh, "don't tremble +so. Let me look at you. See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and +calm. Look at me, Barney," she pleaded, "I am hungry to look at +your face. I've only seen it in my dreams for so long." She +raised herself on her arm and lifted his face from the pillow. +"Now let me sit up. I shall never see enough of you. Never! +Never! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was!" + +"It was I who was wicked," said Barney bitterly, "wicked and +selfish and cruel to you and to others." + +"Hush!" She laid her hand on his lips. "Sit here beside me. Now, +Barney, don't spoil this one hour. Not one word of the past. You +were a little hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew +you were right. I was wrong. But I thought there would be more in +that other life. Even at its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. +The great 'Lohengrin' night when they brought me out so many +times--" + +"I was there," interrupted Barney, his voice still full of bitter +pain. + +"I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It +was for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my body, went all into +Ortrud that night." + +"It was a great, a truly great thing, Iola." + +"Yes," said Iola, with a proud little laugh, "I think the dear old +Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great performance, +but I waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't +come I found that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, +how I wanted you, Barney, then--and ever since!" + +"If I had only known!" groaned Barney. + +"Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy +out of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself-- +now or ever--promise me, promise me!" she cried, eagerly insistent. + +"But I do, Iola." + +"Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will +you, Barney?" The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but +the desire to gratify her. + +"I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word." + +"Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling." She wreathed her +arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. "Oh!" she +said with a deep sigh, "I shall rest now--rest--rest. That's what +I've been longing for. I could not rest, Barney." + +Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that +fateful restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart +filled with a fierce refusal of his lot. + +"There is no one like you, Barney, after all," she murmured, +nestling down with a delicious sigh of content. "You are so +strong. You will make me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, +stronger than for months." + +Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic +of the treacherous disease. + +"Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except +just 'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? +After your long silence you might--" She raised her head and +looked into his eyes with her old saucy smile. + +"There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold +you like this? But you must not talk too much." + +"Tell me something about yourself," she cried. "What? Where? +How? Why? No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest." + +"It is hardly worth while, Iola," he replied, "and it would take a +long time." + +"Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. +All the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven +than this? Tell me about Margaret and--yes--and Dick," she shyly +added. "Are they well and happy?" + +"Now, darling," said Barney, stroking her hair; "just rest there +and I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust yourself." + +"Go on then, Barney," she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss, +nestling down again. "Oh, lovely rest!" + +Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few +days together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the +new joy that had come to them all. "And it was your letter that +did it all, Iola," he said. + +"No," she replied gently, "it was our Father's goodness. I see +things so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is +an angel from Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!" + +"I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for." + +A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady +Ruthven, with Jack in the background, appeared. + +"Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. +Boyle would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?" + +"No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night +to dinner." + +"Is it wise, do you think?" said Lady Ruthven gravely. "You must +save your strength now, you know." + +"Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night," she pleaded. "I'm not +going to be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. +I am going to eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, +tell them I can go down. Barney, you will take me down. You may +carry me, if you like. I am going, Jack," she continued with +something of her old imperious air. + +Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his +fingers upon her wrist. She was growing excited. "Well, I think +she might go down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? +You know best." + +"If she is good she might," said Jack doubtfully. "But she must +promise to be quiet." + +"Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good--as good as I +can." With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content +themselves. + +At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or +strain her wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her +in wonder, asked himself whether in his first impression of her he +had not been mistaken. As he still watched and listened his wonder +grew. How brilliantly clever she was! How quick her wit! How +exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, glowing like a live coal, +seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds about her, till the +whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with imagination's +divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of a change +in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her +conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But +it was not these that made the change. There was a new quality of +soul in her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled +that exquisite aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was +less of the earth, earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing about +her. + +To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change +in Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met +her in a new and better country where neither had seen the other +before. And yet it filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was +as if earth were losing its claim in her, as if her earthward +affinities were refining into the heavenly. She was keenly +interested in the story of Dick's work and, in spite of his +reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, before +he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale of +his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western +Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and +privations, the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs +of missionary life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner +light, the beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of +carmine upon lip and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of +glory that drew and held the gaze of the whole company. + +"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But +it's better," she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little +shy laugh, "to be a woman." + +It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady +Ruthven's attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly +to a close. + +"Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?" cried Iola, as her hostess made a +move to rise. "What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you are +not going to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' +you know, and I believe I feel like singing to-night." + +"My dear, my dear," said Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should +exert yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does +your doctor say?" + +"Barney?" + +"Barney, indeed!" echoed Jack indignantly. "Oh, the ingratitude of +the female heart! Here for all these weeks I have--" + +"Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted +enough to banish me." + +"An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in +an atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too +exciting conversation," said Jack gravely. + +"And music, Doctor?" inquired Iola, with mock humility. + +"Well, I'll sing a little myself," replied Jack. + +"Oh, my dear Iola," cried Miss Ruthven, "hasten to bed, I beg of +you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear +Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in +the Highlands last year," she continued with mischievous gravity. + +"Ah," said Jack, much flattered, "I don't quite--" + +"Oh, the horn, you know." + +"Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing." + +"Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the--ah-- +experience." + +"How do you feel now, Iola?" said Jack, quietly placing his fingers +upon her pulse. + +"Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And she ran up her +chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear. + +"Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. "Her pulse is +strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal." + +"I told you!" cried Iola triumphantly. "Now you will let me sing-- +not a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old +Jennie. Barney's mother used to sing it." + +"My dear Iola," entreated Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should +venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?" + +"Don't ask me," said Barney. "I should forbid it were it anyone +else." + +"But it isn't anyone else," persisted Iola, "and my doctor says +yes. I'll only hum, Jack." + +"Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, +and such frills." + +She took her guitar. "I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother," +she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with +perfect reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and +quavers, she sang the Highland lament, "O'er the Moor." + + + "O'er the moor I wander lonely, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + Where are all the joys I cherished? + With my darling they have perished, + And they will return no more. + + "I loved thee first, I loved thee only, + Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; + I loved thee from the day I met thee. + What care I though all forget thee? + I will love thee evermore." + + +And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, +"You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you." +And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang +the quaint little song that described so fittingly her own +experience, "My Heart's Rest." + + + "I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, + And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, + When the Master came to close His fold + And saw that one had strayed. + + "Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, + And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till + The Master's voice searched vale and hill: + I heard and fled afraid. + + "Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. + And the stars went out, and the day was gone, + Then the Master found, laid me upon + His bosom, unafraid." + + +A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose +red out of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of +mignonette and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open +window as it passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of +love to its mate. + +"I feel as if I could sleep now," said Iola. "Barney, carry me." +Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. +"Good-night, dear friends, all," she said. "What a happy evening +it has been." Then, with a little cry, "Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm +slipping," she locked her arms tight about his neck, lifting her +face to his. "Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own love," she +whispered, her breath coming in gasps. "How good you are to me-- +how good to have you. Now kiss me--quick--don't wait--again, dear-- +good-night." Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her head sank +upon his breast. + +"Iola!" he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing +down into her face. He carried her to the open window. "Oh, my +God! My God! She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!" + +But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken +heart, and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs +that mortal ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. +The tired lids rested upon the lustrous eyes from which all light +had fled. The weary heart was quiet at last. Gently, Barney +placed her on the couch, where she lay as if asleep, then, standing +upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of dumb anguish +till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him alone +with his dead. + + +For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in +the midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for +him had not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. +Heaven had not snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near. + +At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home +and lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to +the spot where her dead lay. + +"We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones +here," she said. "You know we love her dearly." + +"It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven," Barney +replied, his heart responding with glad acceptance to the +suggestion. "She loved this valley, and it was here she first +found rest." + +"Yes, she loves this valley," replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to +accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. "And here +she found peace and perfect love again." + +A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from +London to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had +taken such pride in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as +a daughter, and with him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, +under whose management she had made her London debut in "Lohengrin." +There in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces touched +with smiles that struggled with their tears. But on his face who +loved her best of all there were no tears, only a look of wonder, +and of gladness, and of peace. + + + +XXIII + +THE LAST CALL + + +Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed +his discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its +various forms he felt that he stood almost alone. + +At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, +hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper +office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country +that stretches to the horizon from the back door of every printing +office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The +Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not +yet arrived at that stage of development wherein parties +differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles. +The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that ground. + +"Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, "how did the +meeting go last night?" + +"I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go +at all." + +"Yes," replied Daggett, "your men are all right in their opinions, +but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I +could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's +Matheson, couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion +mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay +cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton +sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red lights' than to all the +rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't +stand any monkeying with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, +even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business." + +Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he +was not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of +Daggett's review of the situation. + +"There is something in what you say," he conceded, "but--" + +"Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, "you know better than that. +This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, +there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though +he hates whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why +doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. +Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and +the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying +to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to +do nothing." + +"You seem to know all about it," said Dick. "What's the good of +your paper? Why don't you get after these men?" + +"My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is +quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great +moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but +unhappily, not being an endowed institution, it is forced to +consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, +subscriptions, these are the considerations that determine +newspaper policy." + +Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. "It's true. It's terribly +true," he said. "The people don't want anything better than they +have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here +for a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and +if you want an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but +the wise thing, jump into a campaign for reform. Do you think +Canadians are going to stand this long? This is a Christian +country, I tell you. The Church will take a hand." + +Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime +The Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's +name with a small g." + +"I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past. +I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and +you, too, unless you change, out of existence." + +"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it +arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see +signs, but the time is not yet. By the way, where is your +brother?" + +"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with +his sick and running this library and clubroom business." + +"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The +railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he +run in this constituency?" + +Dick laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You +couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the game." + +Daggett was silenced for some moments. + +"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our +coming Member." He opened the door. "Mr. Hull, let me introduce +you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. +Mr. Boyle--Mr. Hull, the coming Member for this constituency." + +"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present +incumbent," said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect +for either of the political parties or their representatives. "I +must get along. But, Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with +this beastly gambling-hell business." With this he closed the +door. + +"Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, "but a little +unpractical, eh?" + +"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to +think he is on the right track." + +"How? What do you mean?" + +"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this +country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer +thinks that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy +hat, he can keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough +to last him over night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming +storm. I believe I see them, too." + +"Signs?" inquired Hull. + +"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being +held responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. +'Mexico,' too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and +this Boyle's brother is taking a hand, I believe." + +"The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him." + +"Do you know him?" + +"Not well." + +"You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, +don't forget it." + +Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of +considerable wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old +timer's contempt for the tenderfoot. + +"All right," said Daggett, "you may sniff. I've watched him and +I've discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an +old poker player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. +He has quit poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going +queer." + +"What's his game?" + +"Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. +Spoke here at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. +I wasn't there. Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of +course, no man would listen to that, so he's putting libraries into +the camps and establishing clubrooms." + +"By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does +'Mexico' think of it?" + +"Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his +way. He's a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they +swear by him. He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'" + +"What about 'Mexico'?" + +"Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon +outfit, divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's +acting queer." + +Hull was at once on the alert. "That's interesting. You are sure +of your facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The +virtue campaign is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that +doctor fellow is to be considered." + +But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole +political machinery of both parties was too completely under the +control of the saloon and "red light" influence to be easily +emancipated. The business interests of the little towns along the +line were so largely dependent upon the support of the saloon and +the patronage of vice that few had the courage to openly espouse +and seriously champion a campaign for reform. And while many, +perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the railroad and in +the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic lapses from +the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the saloon +and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, +unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party +began to cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence +of Dr. Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their +forces in an endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires +ordinarily effective were pulled with considerable success, when +the manipulators met with an unexpected obstacle in General Manager +Fahey. Upon him the full force of the combined influences +available was turned, but to no purpose. He was too good a railway +manager to be willing to lose the services of a man "who knew his +work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or blocked, +and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker." + +"He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in reply to an +influential director, labouring in the interests of the party +machine. + +Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. +"Mexico" and the organization of which he was the head were +instructed to "run him out." Receiving his orders, "Mexico" called +his agents together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage +immediately developed, one party led by "Peachy" being strongly in +favour of obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and +scattering, strongly opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. "Mexico" +sat silent, watchful, impassive. At length, "Peachy," in full +swing of an impassioned and sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, +his person and his ways, was called abruptly to order by a +peremptory word from his chief. + +"Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think +you'd do something." + +A grim laugh at "Peachy's" expense went round the company. + +"Do somethin'?" snarled "Peachy," stung to fury, "I'll do somethin' +one of these days. I've stood you all I want." + +"Peachy's" oaths were crude in comparison with "Mexico's," but his +fury lent them force. "Mexico" turned his baleful, gleaming eyes +upon him. + +"Do something? Meaning?" + +"Never mind," growled "Peachy." + +"Git!" "Mexico" pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word +of doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal +from that meeting, but banishment from the company of which +"Mexico" was head, and that meant banishment from the line of the +Crow's Nest Pass. "Peachy" was startled. + +"You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled apologetically. "I +didn't mean for to--" + +"You git!" repeated "Mexico," turning the pointing finger from the +door to the face of the startled wretch. + +With a fierce oath "Peachy" reached for his gun, but hesitated to +draw. "Mexico" moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his +body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids +fell somewhat over the piercing black eyes. + +"You dog!" he ground out through his clenched teeth, "you know you +can't bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought +you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, +and quick!" + +The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while +"Mexico's" hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly "Peachy" +rose and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin +of a savage beast. At the door he paused. + +"'Mexico,'" he said, "is this the last between you and me?" + +"Mexico" kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man +backing out of the door. + +"Git out, you cur!" he said, with contemptuous deliberation. + +"Take that, then." + +Like a flash, "Mexico" threw himself to one side. Two shots rang +out as one. A slight smile curled "Mexico's" lip. + +"Got him that time, I reckon." + +"Hurt, 'Mexico'?" anxiously inquired his friends. + +"Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight." The bartender +and some others came running in with anxious faces. "Never mind, +boys," said "Mexico." "'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went +off and hurt him some." + +"Say, there's blood here!" said the bartender. "He's been bleedin' +bad." + +"Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business." + +The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired. + +"Now, boys, listen to me," said "Mexico" impressively, leaning over +the table. "Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend +of mine, and the man that touches him touches me." There was an +ominous silence. + +"Just as you say, 'Mexico,'" said one of the men, "but I see the +finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a- +goin' and you know he ain't the kind that quits." + +"You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government +of this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can +see that. But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the +present we stay." + +As the meeting broke up, "Mexico's" friends warned him against +"Peachy." + +"Pshaw! 'Peachy'!" said "Mexico" contemptuously. "He couldn't hold +his gun steady at me." + +"He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em +round." + +But "Mexico "only spat out his contempt for anything that "Peachy" +could do, and went calmly on his way, "keeping the boys in line." +But he began to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of +feeling over which he could exercise no control. Not that there +was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to "line up" at +the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging +their support to the "same old party." There was, on the contrary, +a very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, +especially after the lining up process had been several times +repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all +"Mexico" represented. They "lined up" still, but beyond this they +did not go. + +The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in +the attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his +bidding at the polls. "It's that cursed doctor!" he exclaimed to +McKenty, the Member for the district. "He's been working a deep +game. Of course, his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, +but we expect that and we know how to handle him. But this fellow +is different. I tell you I'm afraid of him." + +"Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing," said McKenty. + +"How?" + +"Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go +without grease." McKenty spoke out of considerable experience. + +"That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease +of another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching +the boys all round." + +"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could +take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, +too." + +"That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But +you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his +clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a +number one doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! +he's everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell +you he's a winner. He can get a thousand men in a week to back him +for anything he says." + +McKenty thought deeply for some moments. "Well," he said, finally, +"something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this +stage to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?" + +"'Mexico'!" exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. +"There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it +used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, +'Mexico' 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when +he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good +enough for the doctor. No, sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all +right." + +"Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of +loosening up people." + +"But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't +work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe +there's some religion in it." + +McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke. + +"I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. "The doctor's +got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting +last spring--I was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that +would make your hair curl." And the editor proceeded to give a +graphic account of the meeting in question. + +"Well," said McKenty, "I guess we can't touch the doctor. But +'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He +knows too much. You've simply got to get after him." + +This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, +looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he +perceived "Mexico" sauntering down the other side of the street. + +"There he is now," he cried, going toward the door. "Hi! 'Mexico'!" +he called, and "Mexico" came slouching across. "Ugly looking +beggar, ain't he?" said the editor. "Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, +'Mexico'!" + +"Mornin'," grunted "Mexico," nodding first to the editor and then +to McKenty. + +"How is things, 'Mexico'?" said the editor, in his most ingratiating +manner. + +"How?" + +"How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know." + +"Comin' on soon?" + +"Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be +ready, though." + +"Can't be too soon," said "Mexico." + +"How is that?" + +"Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion," with a +glance at the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. "People +beginnin' to go to meetin' in this country." + +"I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, +facetiously. + +"Mexico" turned his eyes slowly upon the Member. + +"Anything to say agin it?" + +"Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the +doctor's got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your +grip." + +"Who says?" + +"Oh, I hear it everywhere." + +"Guess it must be right, then," replied "Mexico," grimly. + +"And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right +up to the mourners' bench." + +"Do, eh?" + +"Look here, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, +"you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work +you, are you?" + +"Don't know about that." + +"You don't?" + +"No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. +I'm working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to +shove my way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to +shove, I guess. Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in +me, I reckon." + +"Well, do you imagine the doctor has?" + +"Mexico" paused, then said thoughtfully, "Blanked if I can git on +to his game!" + +"Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. +You don't really think he has your interest at heart?" + +"Can't quite tell." "Mexico" wore a vexed and thoughtful air. +"Wish I could. If I thought so I'd--" + +"What?" + +"Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!" There was a +sudden gleam from under "Mexico's" heavy brows and a ring in his +usually drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. +"There ain't too many of that kind raound." + +"What do you think of that?" inquired the editor, as "Mexico" +sauntered out of the door. + +"Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province +and it ought to be enforced." + +"That means war," said the editor. + +"Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. +I'd give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country." + +But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the +country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he +should so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he +went about his work with a devotion that taxed even his superb +physical strength to the uttermost. In addition to his work as +Medical Superintendent of the railroad he had been asked to take +oversight of the new coal mines opening up here and there in the +Pass, which brought him no end of both labour and trouble. The +managers of the mines held the most primitive ideas in regard to +both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of miners' quarters. +Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long campaign of +education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors were +remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so +urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were +concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The +miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the +wretched conditions under which they lived and worked to make any +strenuous objection. + +How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the +doctor, a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of +conversation on the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook +Hospital, where it had become an established custom for Dick and +him to meet since his return from Scotland. + +"We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not +before," grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret. + +"It's the universal law," replied Dick. "Some men must die for +their nation. It's been the way from the first." + +"But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work +yourself to death as you are doing?" said Margaret, anxiously. +"You know you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were +when you came back." + +Barney only smiled. "That would be no great matter," he said, +lightly. "But there is no fear of me," he added. "I don't pine +for an early death, you know. I've got a lot to live for." + +There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the +grave in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's +return, and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves +to think and speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so +full of light and peace, with its grave beside the little church. +At first Dick and Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and +sought to turn Barney's mind from thoughts so full of pain. But +Barney would not have it so. Frankly and simply he began to speak +of her, dwelling lovingly and tenderly upon all the details of the +last days of her life, as he had gathered them from Lady Ruthven, +her friend. + +"It would be easier for me not to speak of her," he had said on his +return, "but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want +you to talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy." + +And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, +till at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together +it only deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep +fresh the memory of her who had filled so large a place, and so +vividly, in the life of each of them. And this was good for them +all, but especially for Barney. It took the bitterness out of his +grief, and much of the pain out of his loss. The memory of that +last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's story of the purifying +of her spirit, during those last few months, combined to throw +about her a radiance such as she had never shed even in the most +radiant moments of her life. + +"There is only place for gratitude," he said, one evening, to them. +"Why should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory +of her or to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going +was so free from pain, and her last evening so full of joy?" + +It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the +camps to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. +And as he went in and out among the men they became conscious of a +new spirit in him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his +nerve as steady, but while the old reserve still held his lips from +overflowing, the words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, +the touch more tender. The terrible restlessness, too, was gone +out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He was always ready +for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life to the +uttermost. To his former care for the physical well-being of the +men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, +and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had initiated +throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to +him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element +and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element +for the success of their political schemes. His love of a fight +was as strong as ever. At first the men could not fathom his +motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly waited for +the real motive to emerge. As "Mexico" said, they "couldn't get +onto his game." And none of them was more completely puzzled than +was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully acknowledged, and more +frankly yielded to the fascination of the new spirit and new manner +which the doctor brought to his work. At the same time, however, +"Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and then, that +the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when +"Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give +himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be +followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day was not +yet, and "Mexico" was kept in a state of uncertainty most +disturbing to his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by day +reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self- +sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it difficult for +"Mexico" to accept it as being sincere. + +"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the +mystery deepened. "What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's +job?" + +One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp +twelve miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow +that had been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with +a wrathful affection. + +"What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" +asked him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, +which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto +you. It's all just d--, that is, cursed foolishness!" + +"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll +tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry +before "Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for +some time." He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament +which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the +place, read the story of the two debtors. "Do you remember, +'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?" "Mexico" nodded. That +talk he would not soon forget. "I had a big debt on then. It was +forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, and since then He has +piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay +back what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent tone, +with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. +"That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a +great thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these +poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I +go out on a night like this. And don't you think that's good +enough?" + +Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the +sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's +tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow +emphasis: + +"You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want." + +"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I +haven't, have I?" + +"Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't." + +"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are +my friend." He put out his hand, which "Mexico" gripped and held +fast. "But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants +you more than I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you +for His friend." + +"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess +not. That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled +out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see you and +hear you talk. It would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing +to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be +like a sandhill agin that mountain there." + +"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor, +quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, +'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!" + +"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a +sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say, you're not talkin' +religion to me, are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet." + +"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is +I've got a good thing and I want my friend to have it." + +When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at +the door. "I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there +book of yours for a spell?" + +The doctor took it out of his bag. "It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you +can bank on it." + +The book proved of absorbing interest to "Mexico." He read it +openly in the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, +between the book and the business he was carrying on, but not +without very considerable comment on the part of his customers and +friends. And what he read became the subject of frequent +discussions with his friend, the doctor. The book did its work +with "Mexico," as it does with all who give it place, and the first +sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in "Mexico's" +mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His +discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game +of poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of +their pay. For the first time in his life his winnings brought him +no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother troubled +him. In vain he argued that it was a fair deal and that he himself +would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts +would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he +had talked the matter over with his friend, and he watched +impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week the doctor +failed to appear, and "Mexico" grew increasingly uncertain in his +mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness not a little +when the report reached him that the doctor was confined to his bed +in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged "Mexico" +into deepest gloom. + +"If he's took to bed," he said, "there ain't much hope, I guess, +for they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight +'em off." + +But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard +to the doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and +winter's work. He had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set +up in the bowels, and that was all. The inflammation had been +checked and in a few days he would be on his feet again. + +"If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month," +groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed. + +"There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him," replied +Margaret, "but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton," +and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, +"you will help, I am sure." + +"Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him +there." + +"Yes, a month at the very least," cried Dick. + +But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised +them he would be fit again. + +"It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical +Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway," said Dr. Cotton, "and I +think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen." + +"Ah," replied Margaret, "that is because you haven't known your +patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply +obey." + +And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second +day, when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and +Barney had apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that +reigned over the flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair +with a telegram in his hand. + +"It's fer the doctor," said Ben, "an' the messenger said as 'ow +'Mexico' had got shot and--" + +Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. +Ben's voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating +quality. Two words had caught Barney's ear, "Mexico" and "shot." + +"Let me have the wire," he said quietly, when Margaret came in. + +"I intended to give it to you, Barney," she replied as quietly. +"You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best." + +Barney opened the telegram and read, "'Mexico' shot. Bullet not +found. Wants doctor to come if possible." + +"Dr. Cotton is not in?" inquired Barney. + +"He is gone up the Big Horn." + +"We can't possibly get him to-night," replied Barney. + +Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each +knew that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what +cost. + +"Take my temperature, Margaret." It was nine-nine and one-fifth. +"That's not bad," said Barney. Margaret, I must go. It's for +'Mexico's' life. Yes, and more." + +Margaret turned slightly pale. "You know best, Barney," she said, +"but it may be your life, you know." + +"Yes," he replied gravely. "I take that chance. But I think I +ought to take it, don't you?" But Margaret refused to speak. +"What do you think, Margaret?" he asked. + +"Oh, Barney!" she cried, with passionate protest, "why should you +give your life for him?" + +"Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was One who gave His life for +me. Besides," he added, after a pause, "there's a fair chance that +I can get through." + +She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. "No, Barney, +there's almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you +go now!" The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled +him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her +heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair +face and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his +hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some moments +they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession +of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice grave and kind +and tender, "You expect me to do right, Margaret." + +A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of +renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she +drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The +bright blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered simply, +"You will do what is right, Barney." + +Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. +"Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. +'Mexico.'" A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness +had evidently reached "Mexico," and he would not have his friend +risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train +was hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and +brought the doctor down. + +When he entered the sick man's room "Mexico" glanced into his face. +"Good Lord, Doctor!" he cried, "you shouldn't have come! You're +worse than me!" + +"All right, 'Mexico,'" replied the doctor cheerfully. "I had to +come, you know. We can't go back on our friends." + +"Mexico" kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips +began to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's +hard. "I know now," he said hoarsely, "why He let 'em kill Him." + +"Why?" + +"Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?" + +"You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?" + +"You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed." + +The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a +nasty wound and dangerous, but in half an hour "Mexico" was resting +quietly. Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed +till morning, conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The +symptoms he well knew indicated a very serious condition. When +"Mexico" woke the doctor examined him carefully. + +"You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. +Keep quiet and obey orders." + +"Mexico's" hand grasped him. "Doc," he said anxiously, "you look +awful bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be +terrible sick." + +"I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I +came. I couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, +'Mexico.' I'm glad I came." + +"Mexico's" fierce black eyes softened. "Doc, I'm sorry and I'm +glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know +now. And I want to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it +right out." He waved his hand toward the bar. + +"'Mexico,'" said Barney earnestly, "that's great! That's the best +news I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick." He took the +gambler's hand in his. "Good-bye, 'Mexico.'" His voice was +earnest, almost solemn. "You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, +old boy. Play the game. He'll never go back on a friend." + +"Mexico" reached out and held him with both hands. "Git out," he +said to the attendant. "Doc," his voice dropped to a hoarse +whisper as he drew the doctor down to him, "there ain't nobody +here, is there?" he asked, with a glance round the room. + +"No, 'Mexico,' no one." + +"Doc," he began again, his strong frame shaking, "I can't say it. +It's all in here till it hurts. You're--you're like Him, I think. +You make me think o' Him." + +Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms +about his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight +embrace. "God bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word," he said. +"Goodbye, my friend." + +They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each +other's eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his +journey through the storm, which was still raging, his fever +mounting higher with every moment, back to the hospital, where +Margaret received him with a brave welcoming smile. + +"Dr. Cotton has returned," she announced. "And Dr. Neeley of +Nelson is here, Barney." + +He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. +"That was right, Margaret. And Dick?" + +"Dick will be here this afternoon." + +"You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except +yourself," said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs. + +"Let me help you, Barney," she said, putting her arms about him. +"You're the one who will not think of yourself." + +"We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best +lesson, after all." + +The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the +trouble and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it +demanded immediate operation. + +"We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?" Barney +asked, a little anxiously. "An hour can't make much difference +now, you know." + +"Why, certainly we shall wait," cried the doctor. + +Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's +urgent message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing +for a serious operation. The meeting of the brothers was without +demonstration of emotion. Each for the sake of the other held +himself firmly in hand. The issues were so grave that there was no +room for any expenditure of strength and indulging in the luxury of +grief. Quietly, Barney gave his brother the few directions +necessary to the disposal of his personal effects. + +"Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right," he said, with +cheerful courage. + +"Of course," answered Dick, quickly. + +"But it's just as well to say things now when one can think +quietly." + +"Quite right, Barney," said Dick again, his voice steady and even. + +The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except +for a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far +away; then the doctor came to the door. + +"Are you ready, Doctor?" said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful +voice. + +"Yes, we're all ready." + +"A minute, Doctor, please," said Barney. + +The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone. + +"Just a little, word, Dick." + +"Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, +"I don't think I can." + +"Never mind then, old chap," replied Barney, putting out his hand +to him. + +"Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said Dick, instantly regaining +hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his +brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke +quietly and simply his prayer, closing with the words, "And O, my +Father, keep my brother safe." "And mine," added Barney. "Amen." + +"Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready." And with a smile he met the +doctor at the door. + +In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the +nurse told Dick all he dared not ask. + +"How long before he will be quite conscious again?" he inquired. + +"It will be an hour at least," replied the surgeon, kindly, "before +he can talk much." + +Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the +door upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, +ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the +last weariness, the final strife." + +"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together +waiting till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now." + +But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the +night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, +but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and +warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in +his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end +drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed. + +"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might +have been. He brought us two together again--us three," he +corrected, glancing at Margaret. + +"Yes, Barney," replied Dick, "nothing matters much beside that." + +"And then," continued his brother, "He let me do a little work for +the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. +Help him, Dick. He is my friend." + +"Mine, too, Barney," said Dick; "mine forever." + +"Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a +doctor, I mean!" + +"We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear." + +"What a chance!" he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep. + +Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world +was at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in +their unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising +sun cast a rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew +back the curtains, letting in the glory of the morning, Barney +opened his eyes and turned his face toward the window, moving his +lips in a whisper. + +Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." +The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look +upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let +them rest upon his brother's face. "It is near now, Dick--I think-- +and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the +pines--but I think mother--would like--to have me near." + +"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." Dick's +voice was steady and clear. + +"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see +her. An odd little smile played over his face. "I wasn't worth +it, Margaret--but I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would +like you--to kiss me." She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for +a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in +his ear, "Barney, my love! my love!" + +Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he said, "take care--of +Dick--for me." + +"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet +voice carried full conviction to his mind. + +"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time +he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. +Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. +"Dick, my boy," he cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brother--my +brother." He lifted up both his arms and wound them round Dick's +neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. +Then one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the +eternal silence had fallen. + +"He's gone, Margaret!" cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, +lifting up a white appealing face to her. "He's gone! Oh! he has +left us!" + +She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only +each other now, Dick," she said, and took him in her arms. And so, +in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they +found courage to turn again and live. + +Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him +through the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at +their disposal. It was no poor funeral. It was rather the +triumphal procession of a king. At every station stood a group of +men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was their friend who was being +carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The +station house and platform and the street behind were blocked with +men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the +line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the +costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the +bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, +hesitatingly, "The men would like to see him again, if you think +best." + +"Tell them to come," replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover +the face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for +the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But +as they looked upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its +proud look of triumph subdued their sobbing, and they passed out +awed and somewhat comforted. The look on that dead face forbade +pity. They might grieve for the loss of their friend, but to him +the best had come. + +By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. "Ochone!" he +sobbed, "when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but +when I luk at him I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in +the hearts of all. For themselves they must weep, but not for him. + +At length, all had gone. "Could you say a word to them, Dick?" +said Margaret. "I think he would like it." And Dick, drawing a +deep breath, went forth to them. His words were few and simple. +"We must not speak words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you +and he grew to love you as his friends. In his last hours he +thought of you. I know you will not forget him. But were he +giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me to speak of him, but +of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved and served with +his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he gave himself +to you." + +As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A +sleigh dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the +crowd quickly made way. It was "Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning +heavily upon his friends. He came up to Dick. "May I see him?" he +asked humbly. + +"Come in," said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on +to the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all +knew by this time that it was to save "Mexico" the doctor had given +his life. With heads bared they waited till "Mexico" came out +again. As he appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm +supporting him, the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The +ghastly face with its fierce, gleaming eyes held them as with a +spell. For a moment "Mexico" stood leaning heavily upon Dick, but +suddenly he drew himself erect. + +"Boys," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly +audible over the crowd, "he died because he wouldn't go back on his +friend. He gave me this." He took from his breast the New +Testament, held it up and carried it reverently to his lips. "I'm +a-goin' to follow that trail." + +Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, +and then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, +perhaps, even by many who had known and played with him in his +boyhood, but remembered by the men of the mountains who had once +felt the touch of that strong love that gave the best and freely +for their sakes, and for His Whom it was his pride and joy to call +Master and Friend. + + + +XXIV + +FOR LOVE'S SAKE + + +Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle +had been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full +pride of their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing +grains. As of old, the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, +ran between snake fences, sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between +the rails peeped the clover, red and white. Over the top rail +nodded the rich berries of the dogwood, while the sturdy thorns +held bravely aloft their hard green clusters waiting the sun's warm +passion. The singing voices of summer were all a-throb, filling +the air with great antiphonies of praise, till this good June day +was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life. + +At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. +"I'll wait here," she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up +the chaste beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her +with his fierce rays. "I must get into the shade," she said, +climbed the fence, and, on the fragrant masses of red clover, threw +herself down in the shade of the thorn tree. On this spot, how +vividly the past came to her. How well she remembered the +heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would never quite be +gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that only love knows how +to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem. + +A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, +remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such +help and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's +words, "Take care of Dick for me," had moved her to offer with shy +courage to go back with him. But Dick was far too generous to +avail himself of any such persuasion. + +"You must not come to me for pity," he said, bidding her good-bye. + +But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and +wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's +heroic service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last +night he had returned. To-day he would come to her. She would +meet him here. Ah, there he was now. On the crest of the hill he +would turn and look toward her. There, he had turned. + +As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, +"Margaret!" and came running toward her. + +She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet +the throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him. + +Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood +there waiting. "Margaret!" he cried again, with a note of anxiety +in his voice that trembled under the intensity of his feeling. + +But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed +her. "Oh, I am so glad," she whispered to herself. Dick came +toward her slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her +hands down from her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to +read the meaning in the blue eyes lifted so bravely to his. + +"For pity's sake, Margaret?" he asked, the note of anxiety +deepening in his voice. + +For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. +"Yes," she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, +"and for love's sake, too." + +And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world +full from earth to heaven above. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Doctor, by Ralph Connor + diff --git a/old/tdoct10.zip b/old/tdoct10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b151e80 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tdoct10.zip |