Mr. Maclennan was evidently worried. His broad, good-humoured face, which usually wore a smile indicating content with the world and especially with himself, was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was beating him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing in General Manager Fahey to have a look at things. It was important to awaken the sympathy of the General Manager, if, indeed, this could be accomplished. But the General Manager had a way of insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and this stretch in Maclennan's charge was the one spot which the General Manager feared would occasion delay.
“There's the hole,” said Maclennan, as they turned down the hill into the swamp. “Into that hole,” he continued, pointing to where the dump ended abruptly in the swamp, “I can't tell you how many millions of carloads have been dumped. I used to brag that I was never beaten in my life, but that hole—”
“Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, bridged, or trestled, and we can't wait too long, either.”
The General Manager's name was a synonym for a relentless sort of energy in railroad construction that refused to consider obstacles. Nothing could stand in his way. The thing behind which he put the weight of his determination simply had to move in one direction or other. The contractor that failed expected no mercy, and received none.
“We're doing our best,” said Maclennan, “and we will continue to do our best. Hello! what's this? What's Craigin doing up here? Hold up, Sandy. We'll look in.”
At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met him.
“Hello, Doctor! What have you got here?”
“Isolation hospital,” replied the doctor shortly.
“What hospital?”
“Isolation.”
“Has Craigin gone mad all at once?”
“Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a new boss in camp.”
A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclennan's countenance. Haines was beginning to enjoy himself.
“A new boss? What do you mean?”
“What I say. A young fellow calling himself Dr. Bailey came into this camp three days ago, raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up Craigin with a broken head, and took charge of the camp.” Maclennan stood in amazement looking from Haines to the General Manager.
“Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? What has he got to do with it? And how did Craigin come to allow him?”
“Ask Craigin,” replied Haines.
“What have you got in there, Doctor?” asked Mr. Fahey.
“Diphtheria patients.”
“How many?”
“Well, we began with eight three days ago and we've ten to-day.”
“Well, this knocks me out,” said Maclennan. “Where's Craigin, anyway?”
“He's down in his own room in bed.”
Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. “Come on, Fahey,” he said, “let's go down. Something extraordinary has happened. You can't believe that fellow Haines. What are you laughing at?”
Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing the humour of any situation. “I can't help it, Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of cigars that man Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. But it's no laughing matter,” continued the General Manager, sobering up. “This has a very serious aspect. There are a whole lot of men sick in our camps. You contractors don't pay enough attention to your health.”
“Health! When you're driving us like all possessed there's no time to think of health.”
“I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that string of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never should have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or something; they're not fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my theory is that every camp should have an hospital, with three main hospitals along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is filled, overflowing. A young missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook supported by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, too; but it's overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the fellows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I get sick send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three first-class men, with three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the health department in first-class condition. The men would stay with us. We'd get altogether better results.”
“That's all right,” said Maclennan, “but where are you to get your first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors or some big bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man Haines. He doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to be different. He certainly knows his work and he never touches whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness or busy he's all right, but when things get quiet he hits the green table hard. He's a wonder at poker, they say.”
The General Manager pricked up his ears. “Poker, eh? I'll remember that.”
“But this here business is going too far,” continued Maclennan. “I didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to say.”
As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook.
“Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?”
“Good-day, cook,” said Maclennan. “Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin.”
Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, “M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed.”
“Why, what's the matter with him?”
Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de office you see de docteur.”
“Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him.”
“Hain!” said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. “Dat's no docteur for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!”
The smile broadened on Fahey's face. “I say, Maclennan, he's captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure.”
The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence and backed him out into the office.
“Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan,” he said, “he's asleep and must not be disturbed.”
Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold “How are you,” and introduced him to Mr. Fahey.
“Is Mr. Craigin ill?” inquired Fahey innocently.
“He has met with a slight accident,” replied the doctor. “He is doing well and will be about in a day or two.”
“Accident?” snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a speech he began in a loud tone, “Dr. Bailey, I must say—”
“Excuse me,” said the doctor, opening the office door and marshalling them outside, “we'd better go somewhere else if we are going to talk. It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly quiet.” The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same time so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking meekly toward the grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader than ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner he found it difficult to rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in bluster.
“Upon my word, Dr. Bailey,” he burst forth when once they were inside the grub-house, “it seems to me that you have carried things on with a high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, you head a mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely no authority from anyone. What in the blank, blank do you mean, anyway?” Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire.
“Mr. Maclennan,” said the doctor quietly, “it is natural you should be angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final judgment. A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. Diphtheria. I learned there were others suffering here with the same disease. I came in at once to offer assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin objected. There was some trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt.”
“Dr. Bailey,” said the General Manager, “it will save trouble if you will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact statement of what occurred.” The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's attention to the rugged face of the speaker, with its square forehead and bull-dog jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with a man of more than ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact statement of all that had happened, beginning with the death of Scotty Anderson.
“That is all, gentlemen,” said the doctor, as he concluded his tale; “I did what I considered was right. Prompt action was necessary. I may have been mistaken, but I think not.”
“Mistaken!” cried Fahey, with a great oath. “I tell you, Maclennan, we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that one man's death, but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the condition in which the doctor says they were, the results would have been not only deplorable as far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us with the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I am proud to meet you,” continued Fahey, putting out his hand. “You had a most difficult situation to deal with and you handled it like a general.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by the hand. “The measures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll send him out.”
“Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his force.”
“Well, well, we'll see, we'll see.”
“Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be busy just now and will excuse us.”
The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his mind.
“These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance—every one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring you will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a magnificent site five hundred yards away,” pointing to a little plateau further up the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. “Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which the men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! they might at least have kept the vermin out.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Fahey, “every camp has to have a few of them fellows. Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them out.”
“Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay,” continued the doctor. “You would keep your men in good condition, in good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay with you. Besides, it would prevent scandal.”
“Scandal?” The General Manager looked up sharply.
“Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all over the East in a few weeks.”
The General Manager was thinking hard. “Look here, young man,” he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, “do you drink?”
“No.”
“Do you gamble?”
“When I've nothing to do.”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Fahey, “a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I don't care.”
For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. “I didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can look at it.”
Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it again with more care.
“You know Sir William?”
“Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London.”
“This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood very high in the profession in London.”
“I had a fairly good position,” said Dr. Bailey.
“May I ask why you left?”
Dr. Bailey hesitated. “I grew tired of the life—and, besides—well—I wanted to get away from things and people.”
“Pardon my asking,” said Fahey hastily. “It was none of my business. But, Doctor—” here he glanced at the letter again, “Bailey, you say your name is?”
“They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Fahey quickly, “Bailey let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your standing for less.”
“Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much. It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything.”
“By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine,” said Fahey, with a laugh, “so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we will get it for you.”
On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, “I believe it was a put-up job with Tommy.”
“It's a blank lie!” roared Craigin. “I have it from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to his business?”
“Craigin,” he said quietly, “let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better.”
Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment.
“There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet.” As he said this he motioned them out of the room. As he was leaving, Craigin called him back.
“I want to see Maclennan,” he said gruffly.
“Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin,” replied the doctor, in soothing tones.
“I want to see him now.”
The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back.
“Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against me.”
“All right, Craigin,” said Maclennan, “I'm glad to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge.”
Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the bedside. “Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend.”
That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been for some days.
Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. “We want as matron,” Dick had written, “a strong, sane woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she is the better.”
“Cheery in manner and brave in heart?” Mrs. Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. “The very one! She is that and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. Dick.” Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. “No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but—” Not even to herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment.
With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever “Barney's mother.”
“It would be a very fine work,” said Mrs. Boyle, “but oh, lassie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!”
“Why, Dick is not very far away.”
“Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen to you, and no one to care for you?”
The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face.
“What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?” said Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. “There's one of the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an' Barney an' Dick—”
“Och! Ben lad,” said Mrs. Boyle, “Margaret will be hearing that story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?”
“Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?”
“Aye, that she does,” remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, “Not I! My business is to look after other people.”
But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do better than take Ben along to “look after her,” as he put it. Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the clumsiness of the other leg in comparison.
“W'en it comes to legs,” Ben would say, “this 'ere's the machine fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below.”
As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces.
It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons associated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those down the line.
It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings.
“It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they do.”
“I guess they're all right fer simple cases,” agreed Ben, “but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!”
“Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!”
“Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?” inquired Ben, with fine scorn.
“Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him alive, an' so I will.”
“Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate,” said Ben, with studied, politeness, “that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done,” displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. “But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!”
“Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the railway?”
“I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general,” replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, “but I'm talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle.” Ben's attention to the finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. “An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire.”
“Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?”
“Well,” said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, “I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere which—”
“Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their hats?”
“As I was sayin',” continued Ben, “there's two churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you”—here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's face—“I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere hinstitution!” And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was impossible to him.
“An' what's more,” continued Ben, “this 'ere hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!” And still Tommy remained silent.
“An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same.”
“Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?”
“Yes, that's w'at I 'ear,” conceded Ben. “But e'll soak 'em good at poker.”
“Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid lights'—”
“'Red lights'?” interrupted Ben. “Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'.”
“Who did, thin?”
“Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.”
“Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.”
“Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!”
“Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?”
“No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.”
“Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.”
“My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.
“Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a batin'!”
“I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben scornfully, “but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher—”
“Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's worth—”
“Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution—”
“Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand—Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!”
“Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.
“Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.”
“Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to blarney.”
“Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same.”
“Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing my annual report.”
“Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.”
And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.
The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress.
For some moments Dick stood gazing. “Of all views I see, this is the best,” he said. “Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it always brings me rest and comfort.”
“Rest and comfort?” echoed Margaret, coming to his side. “Yes, I understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long.”
“I understand,” replied Dick, slowly. “Barney used to say the same about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill.”
Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb.
“Come, this won't do,” said Margaret, almost sharply.
“No, it won't do,” replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's heart.
“I am struggling with my report,” said Margaret in a business-like tone. “What shall I say? How shall I begin?”
“Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook.”
“Hush, Dick,” said Margaret softly. “You are forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital cannot cure.”
“Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers.”
“Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?”
“Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many—”
“What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!”
“Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals, and all that sort of thing.”
“So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile.
“Got what?”
“Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.”
“Is that so?” replied Dick, laughing. “Well, there are some who have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him.”
“And yet they say he is—”
“Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror. But he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British army in India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, one of them an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These people were their best customers. Why, they actually went so far as to write to the Presbytery that I was antagonizing the people and ruining the Church. Well, you remember the big meeting called to protest against this vice? The enemy packed the house. Had half a dozen speakers for the 'Liberal' side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a fellow dying up the line. It looked for a complete knockout for me. In came Dr. Bailey, waited till they were all through their talk, and then went for them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but in those ten minutes he crumpled them up utterly and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor of The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, yellow and green, by turns. The crowd simply yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with the men. They passed my resolution standing on the backs of their seats. Quite true, the doctor went from the meeting to a big poker game and stayed at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him that, and all the more because I am told he was after that fellow 'Mexico' and his gang. Oh, it was a fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort at bottom.”
“To hear Tommy talk,” replied Margaret, “you would make up your mind he was a saint. He tells the most heart-moving stories of his ways and doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are down on their luck. Why, he and Ben almost came to blows this morning in regard to the comparative merits of the doctor and yourself.”
“Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough,” said Dick earnestly, “that you brought Ben West with you. It always makes me feel safer to think that he is here.”
“Ben will agree with you,” replied Margaret, “I assure you. He assumes full care of me and of the whole institution.”
“Good boy, Ben,” said Dick, heartily. “And he is a kind of link to that old home and—with the past, the beautiful past, the past I like to think of.” The shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening its lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and unrest.
“A beautiful past it was,” replied Margaret gently. “We ought to be thankful that we have it.”
“Have you heard anything?” inquired Dick.
“No. Iola's letter was the last. He had left London shortly after her arrival, so Jack Charrington had told her. She didn't know where he had gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, but there has been no word since.”
Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud.
“Never mind, Dick, boy,” said Margaret, laying her hand upon his head as if he had been a child, “it will all come right some day.”
“I can't stand it, Margaret!” groaned Dick, “I shut it out from me for weeks and then it all comes over me again. It was my cursed folly that wrecked everything! Wrecked Barney's life, Iola's, too, for all I know, and mine!”
“You must not say wrecked,” replied Margaret.
“What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. I know what you would say; but whatever the next life has for us, there is nothing left in this that can atone!”
“That, too, you must not say, Dick,” said Margaret. “God has something yet for us. He always keeps for us better than He has given. The best is always before us. Besides,” she continued eagerly, “He has given you all this work to do, this beautiful work.”
The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. “Yes, yes, I must not forget. I am not worthy to touch it. He gave me this chance to work. What else should I want? And after all, this is the best. I can't help the heart-hunger now and then, but God forbid I should ever say a word of anything but gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of sight. He pulled me up. Who am I to complain? But I am not complaining! It is not for myself. If there were only one word to know he was doing well, was safe!” He turned suddenly to Margaret with an almost fierce earnestness. “Margaret, do you think God will give me this?” His voice was hoarse with the intensity of his passion. “Do you know, I sometimes feel that I don't want Heaven without this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now these are nothing to me if only I knew Barney was right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for you, Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to my love of my Lord, I'd give up to know. But three years have gone since that awful night and not a word! It eats and eats and eats into me here,” he smote himself hard over his heart, “till the actual physical pain is at times more than I can stand. What do you think, Margaret?” he continued, his face quivering piteously. “Every time I think of God I think of Barney. Every prayer I make I ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is Barney I am thinking of. Can I stand this long? Will I have to stand it long? Has God forgiven me? And when He forgives, does He take away the pain? Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this I preach!”
“Hush, Dick!” said Margaret, her voice broken with the grief she understood only too well. “Hush! You must not doubt God. God forgives and loves and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the pain as soon as He can. You must believe this and wait and trust. God will give him back to us. I feel it here.” She laid her hand upon her heaving breast.
For some moments Dick was silent. “Perhaps so,” he said at length. “For your sake He might. Yes, down in my heart I believe he will.”
“Come,” said Margaret, “let us go out into the open air, into God's sunlight. We shall feel better there. Come, Dick, let us go and see the Goat cavort.” She took him by the arm and lifted him up. At the door she met Ben. “I won't be gone long, Ben,” she explained.
“Stay as long as yeh like, Miss Margaret,” replied Ben graciously. “An' the longer yeh stay the better fer the hinstitution.”
“That's an extremely doubtful compliment,” laughed Margaret, as they passed down the winding path that made its way through the tall red pines to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a broad ledge of rock that jutted out over the boiling water, Margaret seated herself with her back against the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while at her feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge pine root that threw great clinging arms here and there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet May day. All the scents and sounds of spring filled up the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through the great feathering branches gleamed patches of blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought in network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, foaming out his futile fury at the unmoved black rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's edge, bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along ledges, hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly climbing up to the forest, were all spring's myriad tender things wherewith she redeems Nature from winter's ugliness. From the river below came gusts of misty wind, waves of sound of the water's many voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly ministries got about the spirit, healing, soothing, resting.
With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches wave about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the road again.
“You don't know how good this is, Margaret,” he said, “all this about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! if only you could let me hope that some day—”
“Look, Dick!” she cried, springing to her feet, “there's the train.”
It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like some great jointed reptile through the woods below.
“Tell me, Margaret,” continued Dick, “is it quite impossible?”
“Oh, Dick!” cried the girl, her face full of pain, “don't ask me!”
“Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?”
She clasped her hands above her heart. “Dick,” she cried piteously, “I can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While Barney lives I could not be true and be another's wife.”
“While Barney lives!” echoed Dick blankly. “Then God grant you may never be mine!” He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. “Come, let us go,” he said. “There will be letters and I must get to work.”
“Yes, Dick dear,” said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, “there's always our work, thank God!”
Together they entered the shady path, going back to the work which was to them, as to many others, God's salvation.
There were a number of letters lying on the office desk that day, but one among them made Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from Iola. She caught it up and tore it open. It might hold a word of Barney. She was not mistaken. Hurriedly she read through Iola's glowing accounts of her season's triumph with Wagner. “It has been a great, a glorious experience,” wrote Iola. “I cannot be far from the top now. The critics actually classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glorious. But I am tired out. The doctors say there is something wrong, but I think it is only that I am tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, but I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I want you, Margaret, and I want—oh, fool that I was!—I may as well out with it—I want Barney. I have no shame at all. If I knew where to find him I would ask him to come. But he would not. He loathes me, I know. If I were only with you at the manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. Sometimes I am afraid I shall never be. But if I could see you! I think that is it. I am weary for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is the best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't throw away love! There, this letter has tired me out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is sore. But I must let it go.” The tears were streaming down Margaret's face as she read.
“Read it, Dick,” she said brokenly, thrusting the letter into his hands.
Dick read it and gave it back to her without a word.
“Oh, where is he?” cried Margaret, wringing her hands. “If we only knew!”
“The date is a month old,” said Dick. “I think one of us must go. You must go, Margaret.”
“No, Dick, it must be you.”
“Oh, not I, Margaret! Not I! You remember—”
“Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must go.”
“For Barney's sake,” said Dick, with a sob in his throat. “Yes, I'll go. I'll go to-night. No, I must go to see a man dying in the Big Horn Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back to him. Oh! if I could only bring her back for him, dear old boy! God give me this!”
“Amen,” said Margaret with white lips. For hope lives long and dies hard.