diff options
Diffstat (limited to '3242-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 3242-0.txt | 11429 |
1 files changed, 11429 insertions, 0 deletions
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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. 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. |