Chapter X: Part 10

“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.”