The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


"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."