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.CHORUS:“Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go.Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho!De angels want you, guess I know,But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so.“Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah,Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah,De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah,Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah.“Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'?Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'?But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol'An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'.”
A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain over and over. The simple pathos of the little song, its tender appeal to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that Dick released the tension by crying out, “Partners for four-hand reel.” Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood waiting for the music.
“Strike up, Barney,” cried Dick impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan.
“Come away,” he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice.
“Isn't she beautiful?” cried Margaret impulsively.
“Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!”
“Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt,” said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a sharp glance at her son.
But Barney had become oblivious to her words and glances. He moved away as in a dream to make ready for the home going of his party, for soon the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he waken from his dream mood during the drive home. He could hear Dick chattering gaily to Margaret and his mother of his College experiences, but except for an occasional word with his father he sat in silence, gazing not upon the fields and woods that lay in all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose horizon lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his imagination, where he must henceforth live and where his work must lie. For the events of the afternoon had summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. He could not analyse the change that had come to him, nor could he account for it. He did not try to. He lived again those great moments when, having been thrust by chance into the command of these fifty mighty men, he had swung them to victory. He remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with which his faculties had wrought through those few minutes of fierce struggle. Again he passed through the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding the light, now assisting with forceps or cord or needle, now sponging away that ghastly red flow that could not be stemmed. He wondered now at his self-mastery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but unshaking, handing the old doctor a needle and silk cord. He remembered his surprise and pity, almost contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the floor unable to lift his head; remembered, too, the strange absence of anything like elation at the doctor's words, “My boy, you have the nerve and the fingers of a surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you to be.”
But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which must henceforth be his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the stream of heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already detached from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring.
As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon this thought his brother's voice broke in.
“What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?”
The kindly tone stabbed like a knife.
“No, no. Nothing, Dick.”
“Yes, but there is. You're not the same.” At the anxious appeal in the voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his brother.
“I don't know, Dick—I can't tell you—I don't think I am the same.” A look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face turned toward him.
“Have I done anything, Barney?” said the younger boy, his dismay showing in his tone.
“No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you.” He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed himself. “It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same.” His speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: “And whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you—remember that, Dick, to you I shall never change.” His breath was coming in quick gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken voice, “You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to live.”
For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, “Well, I am a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all the same, Dick,” he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “we must expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till the world cracks.”
After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Barney and his mother sat together talking over the doings of the day after their invariable custom.
“He is looking thin, I am thinking,” said the mother.
“Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the reaper and a few meals out of your kitchen, mother, and he will be as fit as ever.”
“That was a fine work of yours with the doctor.” The indifferent tone did not deceive her son for a moment.
“Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed nothing then. There were things to be done, blood to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I just did what I could.” The mother nodded slightly.
“You did no more than you ought, and that great Tom Magee might be doing something better than lying on his back on the floor like a baby.”
“He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the way it struck him. But, man, it was fine to see the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a slip or a stop.” He paused abruptly and stood upright looking far away for some moments. “Yes, fine! Splendid!” he continued as in a dream. “And he said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. That's it. I see now—mother, I'm going to be a doctor.”
His mother stood and faced him. “A doctor? You?”
The sharp tone recalled her son.
“Yes, me. Why not?”
“And Richard?”
Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went back to a morning long ago when his mother, putting his younger brother's hand in his as they set forth to school for the first time, said, “Take care of your brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge.” That very day and many a day after he had stood by his brother, had fought for him, had pulled him out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery temper and reckless spirit were frequently plunging him, but never once had he consciously failed in the trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed exceptional brilliance in his school work, together they planned for him, the mother and the older brother, the mother painfully making and saving, the brother accepting as his part the life of plodding obscurity in order that the younger boy might have his full chance of what school and college could do for him. True to the best traditions of her race, the mother had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear from her son's lips the word of life. With never a thought of the sacrifice she was demanding, she had drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of treachery, amounting to sacrilege, that Barney for a single moment should cherish for himself an ambition whose realisation might imperil his brother's future. Barney needed, therefore, no explanation of his mother's cry of dismay, almost of horror. He was quick with his answer.
“Dick? Oh, mother, do you think I was forgetting Dick? Of course nothing must stop Dick. I can wait—but I am going to be a doctor.”
The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so like her own in its firm lines, and replied almost grudgingly, “Ay, I doubt you will.” Then she added hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, “And what for should you not?”
“Thank you, mother,” said her son humbly, “and never fear we'll stand by Dick.”
Her eyes followed him out of the room and for some moments she stood watching the door through which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, she said aloud: “Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. He has the nerve and the fingers whatever.” Then after a pause she added: “And he will not fail the laddie, I warrant.”
The new teacher was distinctly phenomenal from every point of view. Her beauty was a type quite unusual where rosy-cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy womanhood was the rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate from every feature of her face, so much so that little Ruby Ross was heard to say: “And do you know, mother, she smiles with her nose!” The almost timid appeal in her gentle manner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's heart. Back of her appealing gentleness, however, there was a reserve of proud command due to the strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave-ruling race. But in her discipline of the school she had rarely to fall back upon sheer authority. She had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, based upon two fundamental principles: regard for public opinion, and hope of reward. The daily tasks were prepared and rendered as if in the presence of the great if somewhat vague public which at times she individualized, as she became familiar with her pupils, in the person of father or mother or trustee, as the case might be. And with marvellous skill she played this string, albeit occasionally she struck a false note.
“What would your father think, Lincoln?” she inquired reproachfully of little Link Young. Link's father was a typical Down Easterner, by name Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, “Maine Jabe,” for his fondness of his reminiscence of his native State. “What would your father think if he saw you act so rudely?”
“Dad wouldn't care a dang.”
Instantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened to recover.
“Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think?”
Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this direct personal appeal. He hung his head in blushing silence.
“Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a right clever gentleman if you tried hard.” A new idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch of hair and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. Here was one visibly present whose good opinion he valued. At all costs that good opinion he must win.
The whole school was being consciously trained for exhibition purposes. The day would surely come when before the eyes of the public they would parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them to be ready.
But more important in enforcing discipline was the hope of reward. This principle was robbed of its more sordid elements by the nature of the reward held forth. A day of good conduct and of faithful work invariably closed with an hour devoted to histrionic and musical exercise. To recite before the teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was a joy, but to hear the teacher sing to the accompaniment of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, but an hour of training as well. She initiated them into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, phrasing, and expression, and such was their absorbing interest in and devotion to this study, that in a few weeks truly remarkable results were obtained. The singing lesson invariably concluded with a plantation song from the teacher; and with her memory-gates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, and with all her soul in her voice, she gave them her best, holding them breathless, laughterful, or tear-choked, according to her mood and song.
It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, driving along the road on his way to the store, was suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of movement till the song was done. In amazed excitement he burst forth to old Hector Ross, the Chairman of the Trustee Board, who happened to be in the store:
“Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the school up yonder? Say! I couldn't git my team to move past that there door!”
“What's matter, Mr. Young?”
“Why, dang it all! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust thing yeh know there'll be a string-a-teams from here to the next concession blockin' that there road in front of the school!”
“Why, what's the matter with the school, Mr. Young?” inquired old Hector, in anxious surprise.
“Why, ain't ye heard her? Say! down in Maine I paid a dollar one 'time to hear a big singer, forgit her name, but she was 'lowed to be the dangdest singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats to cinders! she ain't any more like that there teacher of yours than my old Tom cat's like the angel that leads the choir in Abram's bosom!”
“That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I suppose you won't mind paying a little extra school rate now,” said Hector, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye.
“Extra school rate! I tell yeh what, I'll charge up my lost time to the trustees! But danged if I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song again!”
In application of this principle of reward for merit, the teacher introduced a subordinate principle which proved effective when all else failed. The school was made corporately and jointly responsible for the individual. The offence of one was the offence of all, the merit of one the merit of all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in the business of securing good lessons and exemplary conduct. As the day went on each misdemeanour was gravely, and in full view of the school, marked down upon the blackboard. The merits obtained by any pupil were in like manner recorded. The day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other motives of good conduct, persisted in robbing the school of its hour of delight. In the case of Ab Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took Dugald Robertson, the minister's son, just half an hour's hard fighting to extract a promise of good behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the entrance class, and a great mathematician. At first he was inclined to despise the teacher, setting little store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile, for on the very first day he discovered her woful mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her despair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's propositions her fine memory saved her. But with quick intuition she threw herself frankly upon the boy's generosity, and in the evenings together they, with Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the bewildering intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open confession of helplessness, and her heroic attempts to overcome her defects, made irresistible appeal to the chivalrous heart of the little Highland gentleman. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that was in him.
But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was atoned for, if atonement there be for such a weakness, by the ample strength of her endowments in those branches of learning in which imagination and artistic sensibility play any large part. And a far larger part, and far more important, do these Divine gifts play than many wise educationists conceive. The lessons in history, in geography, and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks and became instinct with life. The whole school would stay its ordinary work to listen while the teacher told tales of the brave days of old to the history class, or transformed the geography lessons into excursions among people of strange tongues dwelling in far lands. But it was in the reading lessons that her artistic talents had full play. The mere pronouncing and spelling of words were but incidents in the way of expression of thought and emotion. After a whole week of drilling which she would give to a single lesson, she would arrest the class with the question, “What is the author seeing?” and with the further question, “How does he try to show it to us?” Reading, to her, consisted in the ability to see what the author saw and the art of telling it, and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's words.
In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid blots. Every blot might become an occasion of humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. “Oh, this will never do! They must not see this!” she would cry, rubbing out with infinite care and pains the blot, and rubbing in the horror of such a defilement being paraded before the eyes of the vague but terrible “they.”
Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine was, perchance, neither wide nor far extended, but it was thoroughly well trodden. As a consequence, when the day for the closing exercises came around both teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly familiar with the path and so accustomed to the vision of the onlooking public that they faced the ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth whatever of knowledge or accomplishment they might possess.
A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents and friends of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. Of the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother insisted that a student should show interest in the school, his mother because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to himself, conscious of the need of a reason, because there was nothing much else to do. The presence of “Maine” Jabe might be taken as the high water mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new teacher and her methods.
The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. The algebra class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as if the hitherto unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from whom the minister had asked a demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in placing the figure upon the board with the letters designating the isosceles triangle he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right hand side of the base instead of at its proper place at the left, as in the book. The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring the figure upon the board and depending entirely upon her memory, soon plunged both the minister and herself into confusion hopeless and complete. But the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, and, going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, “Wait, Phoebe. You are quite confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over.” She placed the figure upon the board with the designating letters arranged as in the book. “Now, take your time,” she said with deliberate emphasis. “Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle.” And thus, with her feet set firmly upon the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and dexterity that elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the minister, good man, included. Upon Barney, however, who understood perfectly what had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleasant impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical exercises as a whole awakened within him a feeling of pain which he could not explain.
When the reading classes were under review the school passed from the atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had such reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar sing-song monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or enacted. It was all simple, natural, and effective.
The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day was complete. A single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at the last, “for the children and the mothers,” the teacher said, one soft lullaby in which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way. The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, parents, and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small degree to heighten the whole effect of the day.
The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret.
“Isn't she a wonder?” cried Dick. “What has she done to those little blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!”
“Yes, yes,” replied the minister, “it is quite surprising, indeed.”
“In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a while,” continued Dick.
“Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself cleverly.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dick, with a slight laugh. “That was a clever bit of work on the part of the teacher.”
“Oh, shut up, Dick!” said Barney sharply.
“Oh, well,” replied Dick, “no one expects mathematics from a girl, anyway.”
“Do you hear the conceit of him?” said his mother indignantly, “and Margaret there can show all of you the way.”
“Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link Young was quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates.”
“We will just wait a year,” said his mother. “It is a new broom that sweeps clean.”
“Now, mother, you are too hard to please.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, grimly closing her lips.
As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently been pondering Dick's words, said, “Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance.” At which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater poignancy.
But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon the sole qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were moved to immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part to leave the matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands, however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business when, there and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid in the section before.
Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused it.
“What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his only son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But—” Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. “Confound these foggy nights! I'll put you through.”
“I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll stay at home.”
“What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy.
“I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?”
“No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded fool and work up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the last year, when he must attend college.”
“I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws.
The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.” The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched.
“Oh, you can!” he cried impulsively, “and I'll be awfully thankful. You can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you have time.” His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a favour.
The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he waved his hand toward his library.
“Now, there are my books,” he cried; “use them and ask me what you will. It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!” Here the doctor rose and began to pace the floor. “There's no guess in the knife point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the postmortem”—here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy—“at the post-mortem the knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery was made too late.” These were the days before appendicitis became fashionable. “Now, listen to me,” continued the doctor, even more impressively, “I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long, the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these,” and he held up a coarse, heavy hand; “I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the nerve—plenty of men have that—but you've also got the fingers, which few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical ingenuity—I've seen your machines, boy—you can be a great surgeon! But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!” he cried, waving his great hands. “And remember!”—here his voice took a solemn tone—“let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind, disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time at your command.” At these words the boy's face, which had caught the light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell.
“Well, what now?” cried the doctor, reading his face like a book.
“I have no right to take your books or your time.”
The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder.
“Now, by the Lord that made you and me!” he said, “we were meant for a team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay.” The boy's face brightened.
“How?” he cried eagerly.
“We'll change work.” The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. “I want fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled.”
“I'll do it!” cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his face. At last he saw his path.
“Here,” said the doctor, taking down a book, “here's your Gray.” And turning the leaves, “Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And here's the treatment,” pulling down another book and turning to a page, “Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go for your first examination next spring.”
“Next spring!” cried Barney, aghast, “not for three years.”
“Three years!” snorted the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! You can do this first examination by next spring.”
“Yes. I could do it,” said Barney slowly.
The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face.
“But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college.”
“Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?”
The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in its cracks and canyons.
“Because—well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful clever.” Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. “Mother wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after a pause, “I do, too.”
The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. “I understand, boy,” he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want, but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife.”
The boy went home to his mother in high exultation.
“The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. “He is going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than I can tell.”
“Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. How many has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?”
“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.”
“Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow the figure to remain at that.”
“Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking with the confidence of intimate knowledge.
“Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a question whether it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive tree.”
“Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.”
“Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows!”
“Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't talk foolishly.”
“But you said four, mother.”
“Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney.
“Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let us hope she won't get the habit.”
“But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously, “what's to be done?”
“Indeed, I can't tell,” said his mother.
“Listen to me,” cried Dick, “I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the 'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this worthy service. Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't you?”
“We will see,” said the mother quietly; “we will do our best.”
“In that case the 'food department' is secure,” said Dick; “already I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence.”
It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular imagination.
“Microbes? What's them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously.
“Very small insects.”
“Insects? Is it bugs you mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to 'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with bugs, an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'”
It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his “good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain articles of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results.
Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that furnished by the “good cheer” department. This was left entirely in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola and himself in the “good cheer” department and Barney in what he called the “scavenging” department could achieve, there was still need of Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and, relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them.
Altogether the “young doctor,” as Ben called him, had reason to be proud of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in his praises of the “young doctor.” It was the “young doctor” who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which followed the first dressing. It was the “young doctor” who had changed the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, bringing ease where there had been chafing pain.
“Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want,” was Ben's final conclusion, “but fer me, the young doctor, sez I.”