The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


"I know the field," said Alec. "But I'm willing to risk it. The winner
pays the wages. How long a day?" continued Alec.

"Quit at six."

"The best part of the day is after that."

"Make it eight, then," said the "Old King." "And we'll bring it off on
Monday. We're thrashing that day, but the more the merrier."

"There's jest one thing," interposed Ben, "an' that is, the boys mustn't
know about this."

"Why not?" said Alec. "They're dead game."

"Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney wouldn't let 'im risk
it. He's right careful of that boy."

After full discussion next Sabbath morning by those who were loitering,
after their custom, in the churchyard waiting for the service to begin,
it was generally agreed that the "Old King" with his usual shrewdness
had "put his money on the winning horse." Even Alec Murray, though
he kept a bold face, confided to his bosom friend, Rory Ross, that he
"guessed his cake was dough, though they would make a pretty big stagger
at it."

"If Dick only had Barney's weight," said Rory, "they would stand a
better chance."

"Yes. But Dick tires quicker. An' he'll die before he drops."

"But ten acres, Alec! And there's more than ten acres in that field."

"I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter on the knoll in the
centre. If I can only get them goin' their best clip--I'll have to work
it some way. I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an ambitious
little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The first thing," continued
Alec, "is to get them a good early start. I'll have a talk with Ben."

As a result of his conversation with Ben it was hardly daylight on
Monday morning when Mrs. Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at once
from her bed and called her sons.

"You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you have to go to Morrison's
to-day. Here's Ben with the horses fed."

"Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my watch."

"No, it's six."

Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with the clock. Barney
concluded something must be wrong and routed Dick up, and with such good
purpose did they hasten through breakfast that in an hour from the time
the boys were called they were standing in the field waiting for Ben to
begin the day's work.

After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray appeared on the field.
"I'm going to shock," he announced. "They've got men enough up at
the thrashing, an' the 'Old King' wants to get this field in shock by
to-morrow afternoon so he can get it thrashed, if you hustlers can get
it down by then." Alec was apparently in great spirits. He brought with
him into the field a breezy air of excitement.

"Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. I guess I'm after you
to-day, remember."

"Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh?" said Ben, who thoroughly
understood Alec's game.

"Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump in an' tie a few myself."

"Don't you fret yourself," replied Dick. "If you shock all that's tied
to-day you'll need to hang your shirt on the fence at night."

"Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too far behind. You tie
quicker than him, I hear."

"Oh, I don't know," said Dick modestly, though quite convinced in his
own mind that he could.

"Dick's a little quicker, ain't he?" said Alec, turning to Barney.

"Oh, he's quick enough."

"Did you never have a tussle?" inquired Alec, snatching up a couple of
sheaves in each arm and setting them in their places in the shock with a
quick swing, then stepping off briskly for others.

"No," said Barney shortly.

"I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself," he suggested cunningly to
Dick. "When a fellow isn't very strong he's got to be careful." This
was Dick's sensitive point. He was not content to do a man's work in the
field, but he was miserable unless he took first place.

"Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me," he said, taking Alec's bait.
"I've worked with him all harvest and I'm alive yet." Unconsciously
Dick's pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney was left
several sheaves behind.

"He's just foolin' with you, Dick," jeered Alec. "He wouldn't hurt you
for the world."

Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his sly suggestion of
superiority now to one and again to the other, he put both boys upon
their mettle, and before they were aware they were going at a racing
pace, though neither would acknowledge that to the other. Alec kept
following them close, almost running for his sheaves, flinging a word of
encouragement now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben as he turned
the corners, and by every means possible keeping the excitement at
the highest point. But he was careful not to overdrive his men. By a
previous arrangement and without serious difficulty he had persuaded
Teenie Ross, who had come to assist the Morrison girls at the threshing,
to bring out a lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour they
sat in the long grass in the shade of a maple tree eating the lunch
which Dick at least was beginning to feel in need of. But not a minute
more did Alec allow.

"I'm going to catch you fellows," he said, "if I've to take off my shirt
to do it."

Dick was quick to respond and again set off at full speed. But the
grain was heavier than Alec had counted upon, and when the noon hour had
arrived he estimated that the grain was not more than one-third down. A
full hour and a half he allowed his men for rest, cunningly drawing them
off from the crowd of threshers to a quiet place in the orchard where
they could lie down and sleep, waking them when time was up that there
should be no loss of a single precious moment. As they were going out to
the field Alec suggested that instead of coming back for supper at five,
according to the usual custom, they should have it brought to them in
the field.

"It's a long way up to the house," he explained, "and the days are
getting short." And though the boys didn't take very kindly to the
suggestion, neither would think of opposing it.

But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, when the threshers
knocked off work for the day and sauntered down to the field where the
reaping was going on, it looked as if the "Old King" were to win his
bet.

"Keep out of this field!" yelled Alec, as the men drew near; "you're
interferin' with our work. Come, get out!" For the boys had begun to
take it easy and chatting with some of them.

"Get away from here, I tell you!" cried Alec. "You line up along the
fence and we'll show you how this thing should be done!"

Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men retired from the field.
The long shadows of the evening were falling across the field. The boys
were both showing weariness at every step they took. Alec was at his
wit's end. The grain was all cut, but there was still a large part of it
to bind. He determined to take the boys into his confidence. He knew all
the risk there was in this step. Barney might refuse to risk an injury
to his brother. It was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over to
the boys, he told them the issue at stake.

"Boys," he said, "I don't want you to hurt yourselves. I don't care a
dern about the money. I'd like to beat 'Old King' Morrison and I'd like
to see you make a record. You've done a big day's work already, and if
you want to quit I won't say a word."

"Quit!" cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's story. "What time have
we left?"

"We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven."

"Come on then, Barney!" cried Dick. "We're good for an hour, anyway."

"I don't know, Dick," said Barney, hesitating.

"Come along! I can stand it and I know you can." And off he set again at
racing pace and making no attempt to hide it.

In half an hour there were still left them, taking two swaths apiece,
the two long sides and the two short ends.

"You can't do it, boys," said Alec regretfully. "Let 'er go."

"Yes, boys," cried the "Old King," who, with the crowd, had drawn near,
"you've done a big day's work. You'll hurt yourselves. You've earned
double pay and you'll get it."

"Not yet," cried Dick. "We'll put in the half hour at any rate. Come on,
Barney! Never mind your rake!"

His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were ablaze with light, and
but for his pale face there was no sign of weariness about him. He
flung away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the sheaf together,
caught it up, drew, tied, and fastened it as with one single act.

"We'll show them waltz time, Barney," he called, springing toward
the next sheaf. "One"--at the word he snatched up and made the band,
"two"--he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at the same time
into shape, "three"--he drew and knotted the band, shoving the end in
with his thumb. After him went Barney. One--two--three! and a sheaf was
done. One--two--three! and so from sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen
minutes to go down the long side. Dick, who had the inside, finished and
sprang to his place at the outer side.

"Get inside!" shouted Barney, "let me take that swath!"

"Come along!" replied Dick, tying his sheaf.

"Fifteen minutes left, boys! I believe you're going to do it!" At this
Ben gave a yell.

"They're goin' to do it!" he shouted, stumping around in great
excitement.

"Double up, Dick!" cried Barney, carrying one sheaf to the next and
tying them both together. Dick followed Barney's example, but here his
brother's extra strength told in the race. Close after them came the
crowd, Alec leading them, watch in hand, all yelling.

"Two minutes for that end, boys!" cried Alec, as they reached the
corner. "You're goin' to do it, my hearties! You're goin' to do it!"
They had thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end.

"They can't do it, Alec," said the "Old King." "They'll hurt themselves.
Call them off!"

"Are you all right, Dick?" cried Barney, swinging on to the outer swath.

"All right," panted his brother, striding in at his side.

"Come on! We'll do it, then!" replied Barney.

Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they tied together, Barney
gradually gaining by the doubling process.

"Don't wait for me," gasped Dick, "if you can go faster!"

"One minute and a half, boys, if you can stand it!" cried Alec, as they
reached the last corner. "One minute and a half, and we win!"

There remained five sheaves on the outer of Barney's two swaths, two on
the inner of Dick's. In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves
were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, Barney doubled the
first two, the second two, the third two, and putting the last three
together swung in upon Dick's swath where there were two sheaves left.

"Don't you touch it!" gasped Dick angrily.

"How's the time, Alec?" panted Barney.

"Half a minute."

Before he spoke, Dick flung himself on his last two sheaves, crying,
"Out of the way there!" snatched his band, passing it around the sheaf,
tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his hands on his
knees, his breath coming in sobbing gasps.

For a few minutes the men went wild. Barney stepped to Dick's side, and
patting him on the shoulder, said, "Great man, Dick! But I was a fool to
let you!"

"That's what you were!" cried the "Old King," slapping Dick on the
back, "but there's the greatest day's work ever done in these parts.
The wheat's yours," he said, turning to Alec, "but begad! I wish it was
goin' to them that won it!"

"An' that's where it is going," said Alec, "every blamed sheaf of it, to
Ben's gang."

"We'll take what's coming to us," said Barney shortly.

"I told yeh so," said Ben regretfully.

"Why, don't you know it was for you I took the bet?" said Alec, angry
that he should be balked in his good intention to help the boys.

"We'll take our wages," repeated Barney in a tone that settled the
controversy. "The wheat is not ours."

"Then it ain't mine," said Alec, disgusted, remembering in how great
peril his $50 had been.

"Well, boys," said the "Old King," "it ain't mine. We'll divide it in
three."

"We'll take our wages," said Barney again, in sullen determination.

"Confound the boy!" cried the "Old King." "What'll we do with the wheat?
I say, we'll give it to Ben; he's had hard luck this year."

"No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" said Ben, stumping over to Barney's
side. "I stand with the boss. I take my wages."

"Well, dog-gone you all! Will you take double pay, then? There's two
days' good work there. And the rest we'll give to the church. Good thing
the minister ain't here or he'd kick, too!"

"But," added the "Old King," turning to his son Sam, "after this you
crawl into your shell when there's any blowin' bein' done about Ben's
gang."




IX

LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS


The mill lane was prinked with all the June flowers. Over the snake
fence massed the clover, red and white. Through the rails peeped the
thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher up above the top rail the
white crest of the dogwood slowly nodded in the breeze this sweet summer
day. In the clover the bumblebees, the crickets, and the grasshoppers
boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting their joy to be alive in so good a
place and on so good a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, and
all the bluer for the specks of cloud that hung, still-poised like
white-winged birds, white against the blue. Last evening's rain had
washed the world clean. The sky, the air, the flowers, the clover, red
and white, the kindly grass that ran green everywhere under foot, the
dusty road, all were washed clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in
the maples and thorns, the birds, their summer preoccupations forgotten
at the bidding of this new washed day, recalled their spring songs and
poured them forth with fine careless courage.

In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, and down this
flower-prinked, song-filled, clean washed, grassy lane stepped Dick this
summer morning, stepped with the spring and balance of the well-trained
athlete, stepped with the step of a man whose heart makes him merry
music. A clean-looking man was Dick, harmonious with the day and with
the lane down which he stepped. Against the grey of his suit his
hands, his face, and his neck, where the negligee shirt fell away wide,
revealing his strong, full curves spreading to the shoulders, all showed
ruddy brown. He was a man good to look upon, with his springy step, his
tan skin, his clear eye, but chiefly because out of his clear eye a
soul looked forth clean and unafraid upon God's good world of wholesome
growing things.

From his three years of 'varsity life he came back unspoiled to his
boyhood's love of the open sky and of all things under it. He had just
come through a great year in college, his third, the greatest in many
ways of the college course. His class had thrust him into a man's place
of leadership in that world where only manhood counts, and he had "made
good." In the literary, in the gym, on the campus he had made and held
high place, and on the class lists, in spite of his many distractions,
he had ranked a double first. Best of all, it filled him with warm
gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had grudged him any of
his good things. What a decent lot they were! It humbled him to think of
their pride in him. He would not disappoint them. Noblesse oblige.

At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and here the pain that
had been running below his consciousness, like the minor strain in rich
music, came to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot Barney
always made him pause to look back upon the old mill in its frame of
beauty. Poor Barney! Twice he had gone down to the exams, and twice he
had failed. Of all in the home circle only Dick could understand the
full bitterness of the cup of humiliation that his brother had put
silently to his lips and drained. To his mother, the failure brought no
surprise, and she would have been glad enough to have him give up "his
notion of being a doctor and be content with the mill." She had no
ambitions for poor Barney, who was "a quiet lad and well-doing enough,"
an encomium which stood for all the virtues removed from any touch
of genius. She was not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly
understand how deep the shame had gone into his proud, reserved heart.
His father did not talk about it, but carried him off to look at some
of the mill machinery which had gone wrong, and it was only by a gentler
tone in his voice that Barney knew that his father understood. But Dick,
with his fuller knowledge of college life, realized as none other of
them did the extent of Barney's miserable sense of defeat.

And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Barney's pain became his anew.
The causes of his failure were not far to seek. "He had no chance!" said
Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking with gloomy eyes upon
the scene of beauty before him. Things had changed since old Doctor
Ferguson's time. The scientific basis of medicine was coming to
its place in medical study, and the old doctor's contempt for these
new-fangled notions had wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how
he had gone, hot with indignation for his brother, to the new English
professor in chemistry, whose papers were the terror of all pass men
and, indeed, all honour men who stuck too closely to the text-book.
He remembered the Englishman's drawling contempt as, after looking up
Barney's name and papers, he dismissed the matter with the words, "He
knows nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't conduct the simplest
experiment, don't you know." Poor Barney! the ancient and elementary
chemistry of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remotest affinity
to that which Professor Fish expected. Dick was glad this morning that
he had had sense enough to hold his tongue in the professor's presence.
It comforted him to recall the generous enthusiasm with which Dr. Trent,
the most brilliant surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name.

"Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder!"

"Fish doesn't think so," Dick had replied.

"Oh! Fish be hanged!" the doctor had answered, with the fine contempt of
a specialist in practical work for the theorist in medicine. "He has some
idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for not knowing. I don't
say they are not necessary, but useful chiefly for examination purposes.
Send your brother down. Send him down. For if ever I saw an embryonic
surgeon, he's one! When he comes, bring him to me."

"He'll come," Dick had answered, his face hot to think that it was for
his sake Barney had remained grinding at home.

"And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, "or no 'varsity for me."
He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from his football comrade,
young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney and himself
positions in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, where, by
working overtime, there was a chance of making $100 a month and all
found. "And we'll make it go," said Dick. "There's $300 apiece for
us, and that's more than we want. Poor old chap!" he continued, musing
aloud, "he'll get his chance at last. Besides, we'll get him away from
that girl, confound her! though I'm afraid it's no use now."

A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. "That girl" was
Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark,
with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother
a wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an
understanding of their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, and he
would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken,
that had smitten him as he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as
Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing,
as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a
gleam of hope, had cried, "We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help
you this summer." And then again the inevitableness of what had taken
place had come over him at Barney's reply: "But, Dick, I don't want to
get out of it." At that moment Dick's world changed. No longer was
he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place. In vain Barney,
guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost
piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first
acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter
reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now
that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in
the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair
to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that
confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got
something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he had gone too
far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good enough, I guess, but
not for Barney." That was one of the bitter things that had survived the
night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal
of high manhood ever since he could think. "But there is no one
good enough for Barney," he continued, "except--yes--there is
one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney." As Barney among
men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his
life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying
his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always
come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney
in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of
honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than
anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get
to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love
there.

It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him
this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the
thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness,
and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made
him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that
feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the
thought of Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her
unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high
spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never
for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should
have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering
of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to
Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With
such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him
go "pay his duty to the minister," his heart responded with so great a
leap of joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those
about him, sure that they must have noticed.

And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make
acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered
what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced at
his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She
might come for a little stroll in the woods at the back of the manse,
but he would say nothing to her to-day. He would wait and watch to read
her heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go
on his way. A gleam of white through the snake fence against the pink
of the clover caught his eye. Under the thorn tree--he knew the spot
well--and upon the grass, lay a girl. "By Jove!" he whispered, his heart
stopping, thumping, then rushing, "it is Margaret." He would creep up
and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was close
to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, the
other flung wide in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing down
upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about
her mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she
was than he had thought! "Poor girl! she has been having a hard time!
It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!" At the
thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity
stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had ever
filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his
brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth and
swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of himself and,
before he knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips.
A long shivering sigh shook her. "Barney," she murmured, a slight smile
playing about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up
into Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat upright.

"You! Dick!" she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in her
voice. "You--you dare to--"

"Yes, Margaret," said Dick, aghast at what he had done, "I couldn't help
it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and--and I love you so much."