The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by
Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola
reappeared.

"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Fallows. "Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git
back. Good-bye, Miss," she said to Margaret. "It does seem to give me a
fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights."

It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for
bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang.

"It can't be that I am jealous," she said. "Of course, she is far more
attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?" She
shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. "Do you know, you are as
mean as you can be," she said viciously.

At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing.

"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound,
"it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a
voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too."

In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her
hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an
involuntary exclamation of admiration.

"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you." With a
sudden rush of penitent feeling for her "mean thoughts" she put her arms
about Iola and kissed her warmly.

"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of
affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not half so lovely as you. When
I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children
to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and
worthless."

Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.

"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and
mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you
go the people just fall down and worship you." As she spoke she let
down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud,
a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked
critically at her.

"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and your big
blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you.
But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,"
she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, "I can please them in
a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen.
But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would
forget me. They wouldn't forget you."

"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice alone;
it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your
manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft
about you."

"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow,
thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I believe I could make them.
But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me."

"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You ought to
have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening."

"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like you, and
the men, too, in a way."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're around
the boys don't look at me."

"Yes, they do," said Iola, as if pondering the question. "Ben does."

Margaret laughed scornfully. "Ben likes my jelly."

"And Dick does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a keen
glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though
enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over
her fair cheek and down her bare neck.

"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me. I've
known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with
them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you
know."

"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a
chance to be anything."

"Be anything!" cried Margaret hotly. "Why, Dick's going to be a minister
and--"

"Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But
Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?"

"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,"
replied Margaret indignantly.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little
place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir."
To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard of." "And yet," she
went on, "if he had a chance--"

But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking about?
There are plenty of good men who are never heard of."

"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't mean--of course your father. Well,
your father is a gentle man. But Barney--"

"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to
sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night."

"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And
I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear
to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you." As
she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around
her neck. Margaret relented.

"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good-night. Go
to sleep or you'll lose your beauty."

But Iola clung to her. "Good-night, dear Margaret," she said, her lips
trembling pathetically. "You are the only girl friend I ever had. I
couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me."

"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never cease
to love them."

"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, "don't
turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me."

"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a
child, "of course I will always love you. Good-night now." She kissed
Iola tenderly.

"Good-night," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you for a
long time."

"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill to-morrow night,
you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have
Ben there for nursing and feeding."

Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of
a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of
interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in
what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving
machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's
invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing
machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it.

Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a
crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only "paying
his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as well."

The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It
was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave
her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she
regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar
pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people.
It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting
to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs
you," he argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I,
weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment
of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you.
You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious
entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that
finally weighed with her.

The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old
flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in
the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful
delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall
in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool
air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their
work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big
willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair,
Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her,
Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking
in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally
singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or
plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too
sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever
quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be
a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of instrument. But in spite of her there
were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre
eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods
on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern "baby
songs."

Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and
love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep
through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms
of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock
at first that he heard the Southern girl with her "foreign instrument"
try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him.
Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland
airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took
on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.

"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick
had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences,
"and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the
same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things
when your mother sings."

"Different how?" said Dick.

"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth,
just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy
milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink."

"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar.
They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind
altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden
rose."

"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us one
now."

"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola.
"You would not be shaming your mother, Richard."

"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly.

"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed,
I did not know you could sing."

Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.

"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor
of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,'
too."

"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began
to play that exquisite Highland lament.

It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl
of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone
touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached
the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin
accompanying.

Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had
the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of
the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with
a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the
quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As
she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in
her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain
and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her
feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's
face, softened to tears.

"Oh, that is too lovely!" cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping
her hands. "No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad." She hid her
face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, "I could never
do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?"
she cried, turning to Barney.

"It's the moan of the sea," said Barney gravely.

"It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside," said Ben Fallows.
"There hain't no words fer it."

"Sing again," entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her
voice. "Sing just one more."

"This one, mother," said Barney, playing the tune, "your mother used to
sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'."


"How often haunting the highest hilltop,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see;
Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow?
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be."


For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music
upon them.

"One more, mother," entreated Dick.

"No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye,
and for Margaret here."

Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. "Thank you," she said, lifting
up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, "you have given me
great pleasure to-night."

"Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a
sudden pity for the motherless girl. "And we will be glad to see ye when
ye come back again."

For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget
that afternoon.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," cried Dick, striking an attitude,
"though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the
purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived
its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere
of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all
its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be
organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my
humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'."

"Aye," said Barney with prompt heartiness.

"Me, too," cried Iola, holding up both hands.

"Mother, what do you say?"

"Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world."

"And you?" turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown
about her, "how do you vote?"

"This member needs it too much"--with a somewhat uncertain smile--"to
say anything but 'Aye'."

"Then," said Dick solemnly, "the 'good cheer' department is hereby and
henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the community here
represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in
their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to
this institution will be its highest reward."

But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up
for them all in that same department of "good cheer."




VIII

BEN'S GANG


The harvest time in Ontario is ever a season of delightful rush and
bustle. The fall wheat follows hard upon the haying, and close upon the
fall wheat comes the barley, then the oats and the rest of the spring
grain.

It was this year to be a more than usually busy time for the Boyle
boys. They had a common purse, and out of that purse the payments on the
mortgage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. For the little
farm, with the profits from the mill, could do little more than provide
a living for the family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages,
the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for the boys were famous
binders and good workers generally. This year, however, they had in mind
something more ambitious.

"Mother," said Dick, "did you hear of the new harvesting gang?"

"And who might they be?" asked his mother, always on the lookout for
some nonsense from her younger son.

"Boyle and Fallows--or Fallows and Boyle, I guess it will be. Ben's
starting with us Monday morning."

"Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for Ben this year, I doubt,
poor fellow; and, besides, I will be needing him for myself."

"Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to drive the reaper for us.
He can sit on the reaper half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here
says so. And he will keep us busy."

"If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', though you are some pumpkins
at bindin', I hain't worth my feed."

"But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, "is he fit to go about that
machine? Something might happen the lad."

"I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, besides, we will be at
hand all the time."

"And what will two lads like you do following the machine all day? You
will only be hurting yourselves."

"You watch us, mother," cried Dick. "We'll be after Ben like a dog after
a coon."

"Indeed," said his mother. "I have heard that it takes four good men to
keep up to a machine. It was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's
Sam was telling me that they had all they could do to follow up, the
whole four of them."

"Huh!" grunted Dick scornfully, "I suppose so. Four like Fatty Morrison
and that gang of his!"

"Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking ill of your neighbours,"
said his mother.

"It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. It's a very fine
compliment, mother. Only wish someone could say the same of me."

"Indeed, and you would be the better of it," replied his mother
compassionately, "with your bones sticking through your skin!"

It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows began his labours; and much
elevated, indeed, was he at the prospect of entering into partnership
with the Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues which poor
Ben consciously lacked and to which, in the new spirit that was waking
in him, he was beginning to aspire. For the weeks spent under Barney's
care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill household had
quickened in Ben new motives and new ambitions. This Barney had noticed,
and it was for Ben's sake more than for their own that the boys
had associated him with them in their venture of taking harvesting
contracts. And as the summer went on they found no reason to regret the
new arrangement. But it was at the expense of long days and hard days
for the two boys following the reaper, and often when the day's work was
done they could with difficulty draw their legs home and to bed. Indeed,
there were nights when Dick, hardly the equal of his brother in weight
and strength, lay sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from
sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, however, found them stiff
and sore, it is true, but full of courage and ready for the renewal
of the long-drawn struggle which was winning for them not only very
substantial financial profits, but also high fame as workers. The end of
the harvest found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit for any call
within the limit of their powers. It was Ben who furnished the occasion
of such a call being made upon them. A rainy day found him at the
blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting to be shod. The shop was full
of horses and men. A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. All
odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine weather were on that day
brought to the shop.

Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found himself the centre of a
new interest and sympathy. In spite of the sympathy, however, there was
a disposition to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, and whose
tongue took on a keener edge as his temper became more uncertain.
Withal, he had a little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, though
conscious of the new interest centring in him, and though visibly
swollen with the importance of his new partnership with the Boyle boys,
he was exhibiting a dignity and self-control quite unusual, and was, for
that very reason, provocative of chaff more pungent than ordinary.

Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, or "Fatty" Morrison, as
he was colloquially designated. Sam was one of four sons of "Old King"
Morrison, the richest and altogether most important farmer in the
district. On this account Samuel was inclined to assume the blustering
manners of his portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, the
"Old King." But while bluster in the old man, who had gained the respect
and esteem that success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy
it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The young man had been
entertaining the assembled group of farmers and farm lads with vivid
descriptions of various achievements in the harvest field on the part of
himself or some of the members of his distinguished family, the latest
and most notable achievement being the "slashing down and tying up" of
a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, the "Old King" himself
driving the reaper.

"Yes, sir!" shouted Sammy. "And Joe, he took the last sheaf right off
that table! You bet!"

"How many of you?" asked Ben sharply.

"Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at Ben's unexpected
question.

"How many shocking?" continued Ben, with a judicial air.

"Why, none, you blamed gander! An' kep' us humpin', too, you bet!"

"I guess so," grunted Ben, "from what I've seed."

Sam regarded him steadfastly. "And what have you 'seed,' Mr. Fallows,
may I ask?" he inquired with fine scorn.

"Seed? Seed you bindin', of course."

"Well, what are ye hootin' about?" Sam was exceedingly wroth.

"I hain't been talking much for the last hour." In moments of excitement
Ben became uncertain of his h's. "I used to talk more when I wasn't so
busy, but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. We hain't
had time. When we're on a job," continued Ben, as the crowd drew near to
listen, "we hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through we don't
feel like it. We don't need, to."

A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words.

"You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," said Alec Murray. "There
ain't much talkin' when you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's
work, Ben, ten acres."

Ben gave a snort. "Yes. Not a bad day's work fer two men." He had no
love for any of the Morrisons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose
hands he had suffered many things.

"Two men!" shouted Sammy. "Your gang, I suppose you mean."

Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. "Yes, by the jumpin' Jemima!" he
cried, facing suddenly upon Sam. "Them's the two, if yeh want to know.
Them's binders! They don't stop, at hevery corner to swap lies an' to
see if it's goin' to ran. They keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait
to cool hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, as if they
was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west side line there." Ben threw
his h's recklessly about. "You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never
seed any."

At this moment "King" Morrison himself entered the blacksmith shop.

"Hello, Ben! What's eatin' you?" he exclaimed.

Ben grew suddenly quiet. "Makin' a bloomin' hass of myself, I guess," he
growled.

"What's up with Benny? He seems a little raised," said the "Old King,"
addressing the crowd generally.

"Oh, blowin' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his son Sam.

"Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, Sammy."

"Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said Sam. He stood in no awe of
his father.

"Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. But what's the matter,
Benny, my boy? We're all glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're
glad to hear of your good work this summer. But what are they doin' to
you?"

"Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled at the "Old King's"
kindly tone toward Ben. "He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout
his gang."

"Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're two good workers."

"But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben blows about."

"Well, that would be a little strong," said the "Old King." "Why, it
took my four boys a good day to tie up ten acres, Ben."

"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," said Ben, in what could hardly be called a
respectful tone.

"Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres in a day, so just quit
yer blowin' an' talk sense."

"I'm talkin' 'bout binders," repeated Ben stubbornly.

"And I tell you, Ben," replied the "Old King," with emphasis, "your
boys--and they're good boys, too--can't tie no ten acres in a day.
They've got the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on my west
fifty. If they can do it in a day they can have it."

"They wouldn't take it," answered Ben regretfully. "They can do it, fast
enough."

Then the "Old King" quite lost patience. "Now, Ben, shut up! You're a
blowhard! Why, I'd bet any man the whole field against $50 that it can't
be done."

"I'll take you on that," said Alec Murray.

"What?" The "Old King" was nonplussed for a moment.

"I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it."

But the "Old King" was too much of a sport to go back upon his offer.
"It's big odds," he said. "But I'll stick to it. Though I want to tell
you, there's nearer twelve acres than ten."