The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


"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.