The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


"Get back!" cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him.
As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of its legs,
swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and,
putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg
free in his hand.

"You men stand back," he said in a low voice, "and don't any of you
interfere."

Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to
their places, leaving a wide space about him.

"Good heavens!" said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, "the man is
mad! Call a policeman, some of you."

"Drake, lock that door and bring me the key," said Barney.

As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling,
the latter's pallor increased. "I take you men to witness," he said,
appealing to the company, "if murder is done I'm not responsible. I'm
defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to kill."

"No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his club to Drake, "you won't
strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no more. The boxing
exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no more."

The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and
terrible.

"I'll give you your chance once again," he said. "Will you say you are a
cowardly liar?"

Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces,
hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, with an
evident effort at bluster, "Not by a ---- sight! Come on! Take your
medicine!" But the lesson of the last half hour had not been lost on
Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his man, feinting to
draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his antagonist
in such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his wind began
to fail him, and it soon became evident that he could not stand the pace
for very long.

"You've got him!" cried Dick, in an ecstasy of expectation. "Keep it up,
Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five minutes more!"

"Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the change in
the situation.

Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to
appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath
came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only
hope lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next
minute or accept defeat. Nature was now taking revenge upon him for his
long outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised
and battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly,
without any sign of the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading
his opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had
arrived, and waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing
for Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning
his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back
into the angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and all would
be over.

"Look out, Barney!" yelled Dick.

Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and
leaped at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one long arm
forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. "Ha!" he
cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. "Now!
Now! Now!" As he uttered each word between his clenched teeth he shook
the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim
struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now clutching
and clawing at those terrible gripping fingers. His face grew purple;
his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell
to his side. "Keep your hands so," hissed Barney, loosening his grip to
give him air. "Ha! would you? Don't you move!" gripping him hard again.
"There!" loosening once more, "now, are you a liar? Speak quick!" The
blue lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which the head made the
sign. "Say it again. Are you a liar?" Once more the head nodded and the
lips attempted to speak. "Yes," said Barney, still through his clenched
teeth, "you are a cowardly liar!" The words came forth with terrible
deliberation. "I could kill you with my hands as you stand. But I won't,
you cur! I'll just do this." As he spoke he once more tightened his grip
upon the throat and swung his open hand on the livid cheek.

"For God's sake, Boyle," cried Foxmore, "let up! That's enough!"

"Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious man on
the floor, "it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, when
he uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, but that
chilled the hearts of the hearers, "you laughed. You were a beastly cad,
weren't you? Speak!"

"What? I--I--" gasped Foxmore, backing into the corner.

"Quick, quick!" cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his toes,
"say it quick!" His fingers were working convulsively.

"Yes, yes, I was!" cried Foxmore, backing further away behind the
others.

"Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, "you would all of you
laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!" He
walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner
in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. "You're not fit to
live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is safe from you!" His voice
rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of himself. His
ghastly face, bloody and horribly disfigured, made an appalling setting
for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the crowd he walked, gnashing
and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury
of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a
wild beast's lust of blood. Further and further back cowered the group
without a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they.

"Barney," said Dick quietly, "come home." He stopped short, with a
mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few moments he stood silent
looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them rest upon the
doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, without a word, turned
and slowly passed out of the room.

"Gad!" said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, "if the devil looks
like that I never want to see him."




XI

IOLA'S CHOICE


Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes
shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm
light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her
table. She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while
she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that
overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break
and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving
leaves and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How
far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her
first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep
impression upon her heart, was when the men carried out her father in
a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared
veranda, she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the
memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her
soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid
discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first glad
freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her own bread
as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love
and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory
of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, one
face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him brought a
warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature
of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first she
saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the
barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding
about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the
barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while
she sang. At that point it was that life for her began.

A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music
professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous
delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria.
She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new
powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his
trembling, broken voice, "My dear young lady, the world will listen to
you some day!" That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day
she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen.
Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with
self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical
pupils, for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings
and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to
heart-break with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends--how
she loathed it--of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most
objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes
for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not
only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And
now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand
was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye
falling upon a phrase here and there, "We have succeeded at last--the
Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you only want a chance--here it
is--you can do the part well." She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she
could do the part. "And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from
accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a
beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will
be gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind,
I foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile slightly
sarcastic to curl her lips.

"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday?
That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made
another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either."

For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent
in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The
utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the
other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the
sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths
in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since
her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the
sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the
week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend
its hours quietly enough upon the yacht.

She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address
written in bold characters. "This is the Duff Charrington invitation,
I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she does it nicely,
at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her
inclination."

Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down
the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing
near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti,
Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their
regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country
seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only
remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must
be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly
well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself
the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear
with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a
little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and
do her will.

She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she cried,
seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. "Barney, poor old
boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where
had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had
been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid
triumphs, Barney had not appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she
murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could
not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages
to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful
as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled
a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly
shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be
her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek.
Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be
free to study, and--well, it was better to be free till she had made her
name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney
would come to her.

But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great
love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He
was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she
had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away
from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so
incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had
her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her,
a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some
finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks
and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public.
Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her
feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come
what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while
she was provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly
proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor
break. No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant,
convenient husband.

What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to
discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no.
Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall.
During these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her
snatches of his time, she had come to feel with increasing strength that
her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her
successes, she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever,
brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her art had brought
her he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued
to be the standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish,
his poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions,
and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine
sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of
reverence to the love she bore him. But more than all, it was to Barney
her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its
depth and strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could
not exhaust that deep well. But the question returned, where would
Barney be while she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along
her triumphal way? "Oh, he will wait--we will wait," she corrected,
shrinking from the heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years
she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that
nothing should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long
cherished and for which she had so greatly endured.

She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an
approaching delight.


"MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you
last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two,
because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night
before last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie
and in the process got rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The
doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at
least in my hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean
life. He should not be allowed to appear with decent people. I have
written to forbid him ever approaching you in public. You will know how
to treat him if he attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business
to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one
but me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of
these people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to
your success. Your great voice needs not their patronage; if so, failure
would be better. When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you.
Good-bye. It is hard not to see you. Ever yours,

"Barney."


Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her
castle in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand.
She read the note hurriedly again.

"He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling." She recalled a sentence in the
doctor's letter. "Let no one or nothing keep you from accepting this
invitation." "He's afraid Barney will keep me back. Nonsense! How stupid
of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He doesn't understand these
things. There has been a horrid row of some kind and now he asks me to
cut Dr. Bulling!" She glanced at Barney's letter. "Well, he doesn't ask
me, but it's all the same--'you will know how to treat him.' He's
too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It would be sheer madness!
Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is
preposterous! I must go! I shall go!"

Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of
passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry.
It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was
no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so
heart-shaking that after it had passed she was thankful she had been
alone.

"What's the matter with me?" she asked herself. She did not know that
the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a part
of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of
Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. "What shall I do?"
she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. "Margaret will tell me. No,
she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think it was wicked to
go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about
things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will understand. He has seen more
of this life and--oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick
to see Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that
Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note and
she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept the
invitation. "I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's
note. I really had accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements
were all made. I'll write the letters now." She hastened to burn her
bridges behind her so that retreat might be impossible. "There," she
cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, "I wish they
were in the box. I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I
cannot let this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney
should not ask it!" A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing her
temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not
force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought to prolong this
mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was
Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. "I'll just go and post these
now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat and ran down with the
letters, fearing lest the passing of her self-pity might leave her to
face again the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable opposition.

"There, that's done," she said to herself, as the lid of the post box
clicked upon her letters. "Oh, I wonder--I wish I hadn't!" What she
had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her
self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable
results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with
the deep-seeing eyes. "He always makes you feel in the wrong," she said
impatiently. "You can never think what to say. He always seems right,
and," she added honestly, "he is right generally. Never mind, Dick will
help me." She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr.
Foxmore.

"Ah, good-morning," smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white
teeth under his waxed mustache. "And how does the fair Miss Lane find
herself this fine morning?"

It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which
was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr.
Bulling's friends, one of his toadies--and he had a number of them--who
represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort
to repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter.
Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his
manner was irresistible with "the sex." Bulling might hold over him,
by reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field
without handicap and see who would win out!

"I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon
you this morning."

"Oh, indeed. Well--ah--come in." Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing
of him. It was against this man and his friends that Barney had defended
her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter
of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got
himself seated she was coolly master of herself.

"Just ran in to give you the great news."

"To wit?"

"Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got it."

Iola looked blank.

"Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?"
Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words.

"Surrendered? Just what, exactly?"

"Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the
Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl."

"Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl?
Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a
pugilistic encounter."

"A horse race!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with
this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it."

"But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists
were chosen for any other reason than that of merit."

In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner.

"Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things
go." Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of
this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and
exasperating. "Oh, come, Miss Lane," he continued, making a desperate
effort to recover his patronizing tone, "you know just what we all think
of your ability."

"What do you think of it?" Iola's tone was calmly curious.

"Why, I think--well--I know you can do the work infinitely better than
Evelyn Redd."

"Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me."

"No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm
confident it will suit the part."

"Thank you so much," said Iola sweetly; "I am so sorry that Dr. Bulling
should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man."

"Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self-esteem, "we
enjoyed it."

"How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?"

"Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way," replied the doctor,
falling into his best professional tone.

"And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that,
too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it is to
have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the
trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at
all." Iola's face and smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr.
Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the
subject.

"Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?"

"I am really a little uncertain at present," replied Iola.

"Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut up,
not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it off."

"You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?"