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.”
“You,” cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. “What did you say?”
“I said, Margaret,” he replied, gathering his courage together, “that I love you so much.”
“You love me?” she gasped.
“Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night.”
“Last night?” she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown pale, but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before.
“Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret,” he hurried to say, “but only last night I found out I might love you. I never let myself go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney—” At the mention of his brother's name, the face that had been white with a look almost of horror flamed quickly with red. “Last night,” continued Dick, wondering at the change in her, “I found out, and this morning, Margaret, the whole world is just humming with joy because I know I may love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined a fellow could hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do you knew what I am talking about?” Margaret's face had grown pale and haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with pity.
“Yes, Dick,” she said slowly, “I know. I have just been learning.” The brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of herself. “I know all the joy and—all the pain.” She stopped short at the look in Dick's face. The buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. A look of perplexity, of great fear, and then of desolation, like that on her own face, spread over his. He knew her too well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned over to him, still kneeling in the grass. “Oh, Dick, dear!” she cried, taking his hand in hers with a mother-touch and tone, “must you suffer, too? Oh, don't say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!” Her voice rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with her eyes.
“Do you say I must?” he answered in a hoarse tone. “I love you with all my heart.”
“Oh, don't Dick, dear,” she pleaded, “don't say it!”
“Yes, I will,” he said, recovering his voice, “because it's true. And I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself love you. It was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly.
“I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so for Barney. But last night”—here a quick flash of joy came into his face at the memory—“I found out, and this morning I could hardly help shouting it as I came along to you.” He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took her hand. “Don't you think, Margaret, you might perhaps some time.” The piteous entreaty in his voice broke down the girl's proud courage.
“Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!” she sobbed, “don't! Don't ask me!” Her sobs came tempestuously.
He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said, “Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand that, and—well, I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get hold of myself. There now—hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!” He held her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet.
At length she drew away, saying, “I don't know why I should act like this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me horrid,” she went on hurriedly. “I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you. But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, Dick, no one knows.” She sat up straight, her courage coming back. “I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware.” A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint flush touched her pale cheek. “But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?” Dick had been looking at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes a look of misery that went to the girl's heart.
“Forget!” he cried. “Tell me how.”
She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, “Oh, Dick! must we go on and on like this?” She pressed her hands hard upon her heart. “There's a sore, sore pain right here,” she said. “Is there to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years.” She was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more he caught her in his strong brown hands.
“Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. God—yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He can't let us go on like this!”
The words steadied her.
“I know, Dick,” she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, “there has been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. He will help you, too. Come,” she continued, “let us go.”
“No, sit down and talk,” replied Dick. He looked at his watch. “A quarter after ten,” he said, in surprise. “Can the whole world change in one little quarter of an hour?” he asked, looking up at her, “it was ten when I stopped at the hill.”
“Come, Dick,” she said again, “we'll talk another time, I can't trust myself just now. I was going to your mother's.”
But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings.
“I can't, Margaret,” he said. “You go. Let me fight it out.”
She knew too well where he was. “No, Dick, I will not leave you here. Come, do.” She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Help me, Dick,” she whispered.
It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, passionate tones, “I love you! I love you!” For a few moments she suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him. Her action recalled him to himself.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” he cried brokenly, “I'm a great, selfish brute. I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again, don't think me quite a cad.”
He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near.
“Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?” asked Dr. Bulling of Iola.
They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the fireplace that had determined the choice of the room.
As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden splendour.
“Yes, of course,” she cried.
“And why 'of course'?” inquired the doctor.
“Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his gold medal.”
“And who is that, pray?”
“Mr. Boyle.”
“Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?”
“Yes,” replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, “he is from the country, where I met him five—yes, it is actually five—years ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as yet”—this with a little bow to her visitor—“but some day he will be great. And, besides, he is very nice.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” said the doctor, “seeing he is a friend of yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and will be glad to call for you.” The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice.
“You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going with friends.”
“Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the more sweetly.
“Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.”
“Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't she?”
“A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest girl I know.”
“I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with an air of dismissing her.
“Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most wonderful way. Looked after me, too.”
“Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, sure enough.”
“Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.”
“And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor.
“Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and, on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, which is not often, and still takes care of me.”
“Most fortunate young lady she is,” murmured the doctor.
“So I am going with them,” continued Iola.
“Then I suppose nobody will see you.” The doctor's tone was quite gloomy.
“Why, I love to see all my friends.”
“It will be the usual thing,” said the doctor, “the same circle crowding you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you.”
“That depends on how much you—” cried Iola, throwing a swift smile at him.
“How much I want to?” interrupted the doctor eagerly. “You know quite well I—”
“How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How ever,” she continued, “one can hardly expect to see much of the very popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up.”
“Oh, rot!” said the doctor. “I say, can't we get off a little together? There are nice quiet nooks about the old building.”
“Oh, doctor, how shocking!” But her eyes belied her voice, and the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant convocation day at Trinity.
The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had to take part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some favourite. At no point was the fervour greater than when Barney was called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends at the left of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed as if the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the perseverance and indomitable courage the young man had shown, and the singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence that pervaded the room was even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney had taken his place again among the graduating class.
Then someone called out, “What's the matter with old Carbuncle?” eliciting the usual vociferous reply, “He's all right!”
“By Jove,” said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, “isn't that great? And the old boy deserves it every bit!” But Margaret made no reply. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears.
“It's all right, little girl,” he whispered, giving her hand a little pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look in her eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat.
On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had endured for the last three years were quite worth while.
After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the little group about Barney.
“Congratulations, Boyle,” he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his parchment in his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes, “that was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day.”
Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed to be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation of him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words Dr. Bulling took himself off.
“Brute!” said Barney as the doctor retired.
“Why, I am sure he seems very nice,” said Iola, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
“Nice!” said Barney contemptuously. “If you knew how the men speak of him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in the swim, but he's a beast, all the same.”
“Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!” cried Iola, “for you know he's been a great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him.” Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave Barney, took the sting out of her words.
Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, who finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness, carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of the afternoon Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little coterie of friends.
And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into closer touch with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical men in the city. For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and his large social connection than for his professional standing, had been invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result that as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention divided between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with his friends, sat across the table. As this group became more boisterous, they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole company. Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him, and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became increasingly offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became more and more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of this kind, and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by a look of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend.
“Disgusting brute!” said Trent, in a low voice.
But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. He had his glass in his hand.
“Here's to the Lane!” he was saying, “the sweetest little Lane in all the world!”
“She's divine!” replied Foxmore. “And what a voice! She'll make Canada famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?”
“In church,” replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his followers. “That's right,” he continued, “heard her sing, set things in motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet little lane it is,” he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his teeth in furious rage.
“That she is,” said Smead enthusiastically, “and thoroughly straight, too!”
“Oh,” said Foxmore, “there's no lane but has a turning. And trust Bulling,” he added coarsely, “for finding it out.”
“Well,” said Bulling, with a knowing smile, “this little Lane is straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's lines run in curves, you know.” And again his wit provoked applauding laughter. But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice was heard, clear and cutting.
“Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!” The words were plainly audible to every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company.
“What?” said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not heard aright.
“I say you are a cowardly liar!”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so.”
For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent.
“Quite right,” said Trent. “Beastly cad!”
Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. “You impertinent young cub! What do you mean?”
For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice.
“Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!”
“No hurry about this, boys,” said Bulling quietly; “I'll make him eat his words before he's half an hour older.”
Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. “Let me at him. He's a great knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything about it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up.” Dick had been 'varsity champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern words.
“Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him.”
Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease the doctor and to patch up the peace.
“If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off,” were the doctor's terms.
“If he says he lied,” was Barney's condition.
“Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bulling; “it will not take more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke.”
The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive a heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing of the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master of it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, avoiding and sending in killing blows, till at length bloody, dazed, panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind and strength. Opposite him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his adversary.
“This is easy, boys,” he smiled. “Now, you young whipper-snapper,” he continued, addressing Barney, “perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, I'll send you to sleep!” As he spoke he closed his teeth with a savage snap.
“Will you say you're a liar?” said Barney, facing his opponent again, and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings.
“Ah, quit it!” said the doctor contemptuously, “Come along, you fool, if you must have it!”
Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a heavy left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, quickly following with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a dozen men pulled him off.
“Let him come,” said Bulling, with a laugh, “I've a very fine assortment of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable terms.”
Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and hands.
“Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, someone,” said Dr. Trent. “A more cowardly brute I've never seen. You're a disgrace to the profession, Bulling.”
“Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent,” said Bulling cynically.
But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs of reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could sit up. Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory.
“Here, Boyle,” said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney sat up, “a little more brandy and water.”
For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, “Where is he? He's not gone?” He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. Treat's hands and drank it off. “Get me another,” he said. “Is he gone?” he repeated, making an effort to rise.
“Never mind, Boyle, he's gone.”
“Wait till another day, Barney,” entreated Dick. “Never mind to-night.”
At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked to the table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he stood stretching his arms.
“Ah, that's better,” he said, and started toward the lavatory, but Dick clung to him.
“Barney, listen to me,” he entreated, his voice coming in broken sobs. “He'll kill you. Let me take your place.”
“Dick, keep out of it,” said Barney. “Don't worry. He'll hurt me no more, but he'll say it before I'm done.” And, throwing off the restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling was arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he turned around.
“I'm sorry, Boyle,” he began, “but you brought it on yourself, you know.”
Barney walked straight up to him.
“I didn't hear you say you are a liar.”
“Look here,” cried Bulling, “haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!”
“Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?”
Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel.
“I say, boys,” said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, “keep this fool off. I don't want to kill him.”
Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney.
“Now, Boyle, quit it,” said Foxmore. “There's no use, you see.” He laid his hand on Barney's arm.
Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away.
“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.”