The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were
already there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. The
varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity.

"Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle," said Mr. McLeod, who stood at the
gate receiving his guests.

"Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," shouted Tom Magee, a
big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue twenty years
of life in Canada had failed to impoverish.

"We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day," replied the miller, as
with tender care he handed the green bag containing his precious violin
to his wife.

"No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "The girls yonder would
hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'll
find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The wife
will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder, eh,
Margaret, lassie?"

"Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in
order," replied Mrs. Boyle.

"Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. "A girl
with an eye and a chin like that may break through any time, and then
woe betide you."

"Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said Margaret, springing
lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the
house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether
bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls
overflowing with life can produce.

"Come along, Charley," roared Magee. "We're waitin' to make ye the
boss."

"All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. "If you
make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold of
the gang. What do you say, men?"

"Ay, that's it." "Tom it is." "Jump in, Tom," were the answering shouts.

"Aw now," said Tom, "there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there.
He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's
the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!"

There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of
Rory's hair and face.

"Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said the fiery-headed,
fiery-hearted little Highlander. "When he's wanted, ye'll not find him
far away, I'se warrant ye."

There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both
famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at
raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved
by Charley Boyle's ready wit.

"We'll divide the work, boys," he said. "Some men do the liftin' and
others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'."

A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker
was none too brilliant.

"All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll have to take it. Git togither
an' quit yer blowin'." He cast an experienced eye over the ground where
the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would seem
wild confusion.

"Them's the sills," he cried. "Where's the skids?"

"Right under yer nose, Tom," said the framer quietly.

"Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills.
Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave!
Togither-r-r--heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up!
Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye!
Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!" Angus was just six
feet four. "Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady!
Cant her over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up
on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her!
Togither-r-r--heave! Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too
rambunctious! Ye'll be afther knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back
a little now! Whoa! How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence?
All right. Now thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin'
down to pick the winners, an a small chance there'll be fer some of
yez."

And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the
sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced.

"Now thin, min fer the bints!"

The "bents" were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which,
fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the barn.
Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn
floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly
joined to the one previously erected.

"Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!" admonished Tom. "We don't want
no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a little
later on!"

In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before
the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places,
but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for
an outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less
sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies interfered very
considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like
galley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they
took it all with good humour, though some few who had the misfortune to
fall specially under his tongue began to show signs that the lash had
bitten into the raw. The timbers of the last bent were specially heavy,
and the men, more or less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring
to their work with the alacrity that Tom deemed suitable.

"At it, min!" he roared. "Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it
was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now thin!
Togither-r-r--heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that
time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what in the
blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees on a cowld
day! Shift over there, will ye!"

In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same
moment, leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to
sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent
swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men
sprang back from under the huge bent. It was a moment of supreme peril.

"Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!" howled Tom, "or the hull of
ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes."

At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves
upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by others, and the
calamity was averted.

"Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!" cried Tom. But there was
a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men stand in the
presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was
walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the
building, his face white, his voice shaking. "Give me yer hand, Barney
Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid
Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!"

Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them
on the back with varied exclamations. "You're the lads!" "Good boys!"
"You're the stuff!" "Put it there!"

"What are ye doin' to us?" cried Rory at last; "I didn't see anything
happen. Did you, Barney?"

"We did, though," answered the crowd.

For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing
hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had
seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men
had been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again relieved the strain.

"Did any of you hear the cowbell?" he said. "It strikes me it's not
quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?"

"Rory and Tom for captains!" cried a voice.

"Not me, by the powers!" said Tom.

"Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men."

"All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same
place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an'
brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney
there. He's the man, I kin tell ye."

This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy.

"Barney it is!" "Rory and Barney!" they yelled.

"Me!" cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. "I have never
done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising all my life."

There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had
Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and quickness.

"Carry pins, is it?" said Tom. "Ye can carry yer head level, me boy. So
at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will."

"Well then," cried Barney, "I will, if you give me first choice, and
I'll take Tom here."

"Hooray!" yelled Tom, "I'm wid ye." So it was agreed, and in a few
minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as
last choice.

"We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. "We
don't want to hog on ye too much."

"Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to
his place among Rory's men. "You'll earn your supper to-day with the
best of them."

"If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!" cried Ben, to the huge
delight of the crowd.

And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there
was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should complete each
its part of the structure first. The main plates, the "purline" plates,
posts and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set securely
in position. The side whose last man was first down from the building
after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a
hundred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off
to "ride" the plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were,
quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men
to be depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The
choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, side.

"Niver fret, Barney," cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of
battle was his own man again. "Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, an'
the more air for us the better."

Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word.

"Aren't they splendid!" said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, her
cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. "Oh, if I were
only a boy!"

"Ay," said Mrs. Boyle, "ye'd be riding the plate, I doubt."

"Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!" answered the girl, with her eyes
upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young captain, whose
rugged face showed pale even at that distance.

"Now then, men," cried the framer. "Mind your pins. Are you ready?"
holding his hat high in the air.

"Ready," answered Rory.

Barney nodded.

"Git then!" he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like hounds
after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the tape,
they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men
possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps,
wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan.

"Well done, Rory! He's up first!" cried a girl whose brilliant
complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her relationship to
the captain of the north side.

"Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see," cried Margaret. "Oh,
Barney, hurry! hurry!"

"Indeed, he will need to hurry," cried Rory's sister, mercilessly
exultant. "He's up! He's up!"

Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had
just "broken it down," and in half a minute, seized by the men detailed
for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men
with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second half
was making its appearance over the bent, to be seized and placed and
pinned as its mate had been.

"He's won! He's won!" shrieked Rory's admiring faction.

"Barney! Barney!" screamed his contingent reproachfully.

"Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!"

"Beaten, indeed!" was the scornful reply. "Just wait a minute."

"They're at the 'purlines'!" shrieked Rory's sister, and her friends,
proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of expressing
emotion under such circumstances.

"My!" sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering
unutterable pangs of humiliation. "Some people don't mind making a show
of themselves."

"Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?" cried Margaret, to whose eager spirit
Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow.

But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been
carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of
his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been
making ready the "purlines" and laying the rafters in order so that,
although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once
his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in
more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters
moved to their positions as if by magic. Consequently, though when they
arrived at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his
rafters were lifted almost as one into their places.

At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been
enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating defeat,
rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a
series of ear-piercing but altogether rapturous shrieks.

"They're down! They're down!" screamed Margaret, dancing in an ecstasy
of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at braces, slipping,
sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from incredible
distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous shouts of
victory a heart-rending scream rang out, followed by a shuddering groan
and dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped from its
splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and
swinging free, fell crashing through the timbers upon the scurrying,
scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who
was madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by
good fortune against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path
of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking
at last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben
Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment
two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and
screaming and carried to an open grassy spot. After some moments of
confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry after his
horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow
placed thereon, to which Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly
lifted.

"I'll go wid ye," said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and hat.

Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself
together. "Stop a bit, Barney," he said. He beckoned Rory to his side.
"Tell them," he said between his gasps, "not to spoil their supper for
me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps I hearned it."

"And that you did, lad," cried Rory. "No man better, and I'll tell
them."

The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out
into admiring expletives, "Good boy, Benny!" "Benny's the stuff!" till
finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, "Three cheers
for Benny!" and the feelings of the crowd, held in check for so many
minutes, at length found expression in three times three, and with the
cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his drawn face, poor
Ben, forgetting his agony for the time, was borne away on his three-mile
drive to the doctor.

The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won.




IV

THE DANCE


The dance was well on when Barney and Tom drove up to the McLeods' gate.
They were met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, with a group of
girls and Mr. McLeod, had been waiting for them. As they drove into the
yard they were met at once with eager questions as to the condition and
fate of the unhappy Ben.

"Ben, is it?" said Tom. "Indeed, it's a hero we've discovered. He stud
it like a brick. An' I'm not sure but there are two av thim," he said,
jerking his thumb toward Barney. "Ye ought to have seen him stand
there houldin' the light an' passin' the doctor sthrings, an' the blood
spoutin' like a stuck pig. What happened afther, it's mesilf can't tell
ye at all, for I was restin' quietly by mesilf on the floor on the broad
av me back, an' naither av thim takin' annythin' to do wid me except
to drown me wid watther betune times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the born
doctor, an' so he is," continued Tom, warming to his theme, "for wid his
hands red wid blood an' his face as white as yer apron, ma'am, niver a
shiver did he give until the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was
sewed. Bedad! there's not a man in the county could do the same."

There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after many attempts Barney
finally gave it up, and began unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound
of the dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the silence there
rose a voice in song to the accompaniment of some stringed instrument.
It was an arresting voice. The group about the horse stood perfectly
still as the voice rose and soared and sank and rose again in an old
familiar plantation air.

"Who in thunder is that?" cried Barney, turning to his mother.

But his mother shook her head. "Indeed, I know not, but it's likely yon
strange girl that came out from town with the Murrays."

"I know," cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, with a little toss of her
head, "Alec told me. She is the girl who has come to take the teacher's
place for a month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her father was
a colonel in the Southern army, California or Virginia or some place, I
don't just remember. Oh! I know all about her, Alec told me," continued
Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy curls. "And she'll have a
string of hearts dangling to her apron, if she wears one, before the
month is out, so you'd better mind out, Barney."

But Barney was not heeding her. "Hush!" he said, holding up his hand,
for again the voice was rising up clear and full into the night silence.
Even Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till the verse was
finished.

"She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney," continued Teenie wickedly.
"You'll just need to take her with you to the Mill."

"Indeed, and there will be no such lassie as yon in my house," said the
mother, speaking sharply.

"She has no mother," said Margaret softly, "and she will need a place."

"Yes, that she will," replied Mrs. Boyle, "and I know very well where
she will be going, too, and you with four little ones to do for, not to
speak of the minister, the hardest of the lot." Mrs. Boyle was evidently
seriously angered.

"Man! What a voice!" breathed Barney, and, making fast the horse to the
waggon, he set off for the barn apparently oblivious of all about him.

"Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's nobody knows what's in
that lad. But he'll stir the world yit, an' so he will. An' that's what
the ould Doctor said, so it was."

When Barney reached the barn floor the Southern girl had just finished
her song, and with her guitar still in her hands was idly strumming its
strings. The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as to reveal
the ivory pallor of her face and the lustrous depths of her dark eyes.
It was a face of rare and romantic beauty framed in soft, fluffy, dark
hair, brushed high off the forehead and gathered in a Greek knot at the
back of her head. But besides the beauty of face and eyes, there was
an air of gentle, appealing innocence that awakened the chivalrous
instincts latent in every masculine heart, and a lazy, languorous grace
that set her in striking contrast to the alert, vigorous country maids
so perfectly able to care for themselves, asking odds of no man. When
the singing ceased Barney came out of the shadow at his father's side,
and, reaching for the violin, said, "Let me spell you a bit, Dad."

At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside the singer, turned
quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang for him, shouting, "Hello! you
old whale, you!" The father hastily pulled his precious violin out of
danger.

"Let go, Dick! Let go, I tell you!" said Barney, struggling in his
brother's embrace; "stop it, now!"

With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him and stood on guard with
an embarrassed, half-shamed, half-indignant laugh. The crowd gathered
near in delighted expectation. There was always something sure to happen
when Dick "got after" his older brother.

"He won't let me kiss him," cried Dick pitifully, to the huge enjoyment
of the crowd.

"It's too bad, Dick," they cried.

"So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's a shame!" replied Dick,
in a hurt tone. "And me just home, too."

"It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a minute," cried his
sympathisers.

"I won't either," cried Dick, preparing to make an attack.

"Look here, Dick," cried Barney impatiently, "just quit your nonsense
or I'll throw you on the floor there and sit on you. Besides, you're
spoiling the music."

"Well, well, that's so," said Dick. "So on Miss Lane's account I'll
forbear, provided, that is, she sings again, as, of course, she will."

It was Dick's custom to assume command in every company where he found
himself.

"What is it to be? 'Dixie'?"

"Yes! Yes!" cried the crowd. "'Dixie.' We'll give you the chorus."

After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into
that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney
picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found
her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords.
The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as
if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness
and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd
were entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient
for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She
turned to Dick, who had resumed his place beside her. "Who is the man
you wanted so badly to kiss?" she asked quietly.

"Who?" he cried, so that everyone heard. "What! don't you know? That's
Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your
fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it
Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line."

Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and
awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the
block where she had been sitting.

"You accompany beautifully," she said in her soft Southern drawl; "it's
in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that."

"Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager to get back again to
his shadow, "but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing
again."

"Certainly," cried Dick, "she'll sing again. What will you give us now,
white or black?"

"Plantation, of course," said Barney brusquely.

"All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?" cried Dick.

The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. "Do they all obey
you here?"

"Ask them."

"That's what," cried Alec Murray, "especially the girls."

She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then
turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked
for, "You, too, obey, I see," she said.

"Generally--, always when I like," he replied, continuing to play.

"Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose I must then." And she
began:


"The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home."


Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its
dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice
soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello,
supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless.
No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves
came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion
and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing
tide of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness
of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of
unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the
spell. As before, silence followed the song.

"But you did not do your part," she said, smiling up at him with a very
pretty air of embarrassment.

"No," said Dick solemnly, "we didn't dare."

"Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse,
and Dick, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, "Music, when
it's good, makes him quite batty."

But Iola ignored him. "Did you ever hear this?" she said to Barney. She
strummed a few chords on her guitar. "It's only a little baby song, one
my old mammy used to sing."


"Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas',
Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass.
Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las',
So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass.