Produced by Donald Lainson
THE DOCTOR
A TALE OF THE ROCKIES
By Ralph Connor
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE OLD STONE MILL
II. THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE
III. THE RAISING
IV. THE DANCE
V. THE NEW TEACHER
VI. THE YOUNG DOCTOR
VII. THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT
VIII. BEN'S GANG
IX. LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS
X. FOR A LADY'S HONOUR
XI. IOLA'S CHOICE
XII. HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE
XIII. A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT
XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN
XV. THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS
XVI. THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH
XVII. THE FIGHT WITH DEATH
XVIII. THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF THE CROW'S NEST
XIX. THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK
XX. UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN
XXI. TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST
XXII. THE HEART'S REST
XXIII. THE LAST CALL
XXIV. FOR LOVE'S SAKE
THE DOCTOR
I
THE OLD STONE MILL
There were two ways by which one could get to the Old Stone Mill. One,
from the sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, flower-decked
banks, wound between snake fences, along which straggled irregular
clumps of hazel and blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond
which stretched on one side fields of grain just heading out this bright
June morning, and on the other side a long strip of hay fields of mixed
timothy and red clover, generous of colour and perfume, which ran along
the snake fence till it came to a potato patch which, in turn, led to an
orchard where the lane began to drop down to the Mill valley.
At the crest of the hill travellers with even the merest embryonic
aesthetic taste were forced to pause. For there the valley with its
sweet loveliness lay in full view before them. Far away to the right,
out of an angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill the pond which
brimmed gleaming to the green bank of the dam. Beyond the pond a sloping
grassy sward showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the
hither side of the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge,
and at the nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows,
stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard
the shed and barn, all neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left
of the mill, with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond,
wandered off green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the
Mill Creek, foaming as if enraged that it should have been even for a
brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, beyond the
many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream
entered, and maple and beech on the higher levels. That was one way to
the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist or their oats for
old Charley Boyle to grind.
The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line,
which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path,
sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the
barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech
and maple woods to the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the
right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one
wished to reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill,
with its dam and pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard,
made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of
peace. At least, the woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the
willows fell, found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested
her; the full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours
forth herself on a summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted
her. She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and straight she
stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with features
that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her black hair shot with silver
threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep set, black
and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that
have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens.
“Ay, it's a bonny spot,” she sighed, her rugged face softening as she
gazed. “It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it.”
As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of
the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin.
“Oh, that weary fiddle!” she said with an impatient shake of her head.
But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into tender pity.
“Ah, well, well,” she sighed, “poor man, it is the kind heart he has,
whateffer.”
She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large
living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that
joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside
the door. “Mercy me!” she cried, “it's time my own work was done. But
I'll just step in and see--” She opened the door leading to the mill and
stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven,
and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his
forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing
a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight.
“The mill's a-workin', mother,” he cried without stopping his flying
fingers, “and I'm keepin' my eye upon her.”
She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. “Ay, the mill is
workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking.”
“Of what then?” he cried cheerily, still playing.
“It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you.”
“Wrong, mother,” replied the little man exultant. “Sure you're wrong.
Listen to this. What is it now?”
“Nonsense,” cried the woman, “how do I know?”
“But listen, Elsie, darlin',” he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue.
“Don't you mind--” and on he played for a few minutes. “Now you mind,
don't you?”
“Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?” she cried,
heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance.
But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly
changing expression, took on a softer look.
“Ah, there you are,” cried the little man in triumph, “now I know you
remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since--”
He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang
toward her.
“Go away with you.” She closed the door quickly behind her. “Whisht now!
Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were.”
“Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's
foolish enough I've been often since. And,” he added with a sigh,
“it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do,
perhaps, what I've not done.”
“Whisht now, lad,” said his wife, patting his shoulder gently, for a
great tenderness flowed over her eloquent face. “What has come to
you to-day? Go away now to your work,” she added in her former tone,
“there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go now and I'll watch the
grist.”
“And why would you watch the grist, mother?” said a voice from the
mill door, as a young man of eighteen years stepped inside. He was his
mother's son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep-set, sombre
eyes, the same suggestion of strength in every line of his body, of
power in every move he made and of passion in every glance. “Indeed, you
will do no such thing. Dad'll watch the grist and I'll slash down the
hay in no time. And do you know, mother,” he continued in a tone of
suppressed excitement, “have you heard the big news?” His mother waited.
“He's coming home to-day. He's coming with the Murrays, and Alec will
bring him to the raising.”
A throb of light swept across the mother's face, but she only said in a
voice calm and steady, “Well, you'd better get that hay down. It'll be
late enough before it is in.”
“Listen to her, Barney,” cried her husband scornfully. “And she'll not
be going to the raising today, either. The boy'll be home by one in the
morning, and sure that's time enough.”
Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet smile on his face. “We
will have dinner early,” he said, “and I'll just take a turn at the
hay.”
She turned and entered the house without a word, while he took down the
scythe from its peg, removed the blade from the snath and handed it to
his father.
“Give it a turn or two,” he said; “you're better than me at this.”
“Here then,” replied his father, handing him the violin, “and you're
better at this.”
“They would not say so to-night, Dad,” replied the lad as he took the
violin from his father's hands, looking it over reverently. In a very
few minutes his father came back with the scythe ready for work; and
Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off up the lane.
II
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE
Two hours later, down from the dusty sideroad, a girl swinging a milk
pail in her hand turned into the mill lane. As she stepped from the
glare and dust of the highroad into the lane, it seemed as if Nature had
been waiting to find in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in
all her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of that green shady lane
with its sweet fragrance and its fresh beauty.
It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country life to round that
supple form into its firm lines of grace, and to tint those moulded
cheeks with the dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle
heads that nodded at her through the snake fence. It had taken sixteen
years of pure-hearted, joyous living to lend those eyes, azure as
the sky above, their brave, clear glance; sixteen years of unsullied
maidenhood to endow her with that divine something of mystery which,
with its shy reserve and fearless trust, awakens reverence and rebukes
impurity as with the vision of God.
Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, shining golden in the
sun, revealed a face strong, brave and kind, with just a touch of
pride. The pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head and the
carriage of her shoulders. But when the mobile lips parted in a smile
over the straight rows of white teeth one forgot the pride and thought
only of the soft persuasive lips.
As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep breaths of
clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, “Oh, this is good!” She peeped
through the snake fence at the luscious rich masses of red clover. “What
a bed!” she cried; “I believe I'll try it.” Over the fence she sprang,
and in a thorn tree's shade, deep in the fragrant blossoms, she
stretched herself at full length upon her back. For some minutes she
lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed looking up through the spreading
thorn tree branches to the blue sky with its floating, fleecy clouds
far overhead. The lazy drone of the bees in the clover beside her, the
languorous summer airs swaying into gentle nodding the timothy stalks
just above her head, and all the soothing sounds of a summer morning,
that many-voiced choir that sings to the great God Nature's glad content
that all is so very good, rested and comforted the girl's heart and
body, making her know as she had not known before how very weary she had
been and how deep an ache her heart had held.
“Oh, it's good!” she cried again, stretching her hands at full length
above her head. “I wish I could stay for one whole day, just here in the
clover with the bees and the birds and the trees and the clouds and the
blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidying up.”
As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had thrown off for the
moment the load she had been carrying for many months. For a year
she had tried to fill in the minister's household her mother's place.
Without a day's warning the burden had been laid upon her shoulders,
but with the fine courage that youth and love combine to give, denying
herself even the poor luxury of indulgence of the grief that had fallen
upon her young heart, she had given herself, without thought of anything
heroic in her giving, to the caring for the house and the household, and
the comforting as best she could of her father, suddenly bereft of her
who had been to him not wife alone, but comrade and counsellor as well.
Without a thought, she had at once surrendered all the bright plans that
she, with her mother, had cherished for the cultivation of her varied
talents, and had turned to the dull, monotonous routine of household
duties with never a thought but that she must do it. There was no one
else.
“I believe I am tired,” she said again aloud; then letting her heart
follow her eyes into and beyond the blue above her, she cried softly, “O
mother, how tired you must have been with it all, and how much you did
for me! For me, great, big lump that I am! Dear little mother. Oh, if
I had only known! Oh, we were all so thoughtless!” She stretched up
her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. “For your sake,
mother dear,” she whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim
with tears. Not often since that day when they had carried her mother
out from the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging
children, and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself
the while. “I never saw HER cry,” she said to herself, “not once, except
for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to give up,” and
again the tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. “Nonsense,” she cried
impatiently, sitting up straight, “don't be a big, selfish baby. They're
just the dearest little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for
them.”
Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation.
She locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. “It is a
beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over
the fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!” Once
more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay
again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents.
“Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink--”
She sprang up alert and listening. “That is old Charley, I suppose, or
Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe.” She climbed up the conveniently
jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field.
“It's Barney,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand; “I wonder he
does not cut his fingers.” She sat herself down upon the top rail and
leaned against the stake.
“My! what a sweep,” she said in admiring tones as the young man swayed
to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, swinging
easily now backward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting
sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas! the clattering
machine-knives have driven off from our hay-fields the mower's art with
all its rhythmic grace.
Those were days when men were famous according as they could “cut off
the heels of a rival mower.” There are that grieve that, one by one,
from field and from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily
toil by which men were wont to prove their might, their skill of hand
and eye, their invincible endurance. But there still offer in life's
stern daily fight full opportunity to prove manhood in ways less
picturesque perhaps, but no less truly testing.
Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body swinging in very poetry of
motion.
“Doesn't he do it well!” said the girl, following with admiring eyes
every movement of his well-poised frame. “How big he is! Why--” and her
blue eyes widened with startled surprise, “he's almost a man!” The tint
of the thistle bloom deepened in her cheek. She glanced down and made
as if to spring to the ground; then settling herself resolutely back
against her fence stake, she exclaimed, “Pshaw! I don't care. He is just
a boy. Anyway, I'm not going to mind Barney Boyle.”
On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the swath clean out to the
end.
“Well done!” cried the girl. “You'll be cutting off Long John's heels in
a year or so.”
“A year or so! If I can't do it to-day I never can. But I don't want to
blow.”
“You needn't. They're all talking about you, with your binding and
pitching and cradling, and what not.”
“They are, are they? Who is good enough to waste breath on me?”
“Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just telling me the other day.”
“Oh, pshaw! I ran away from their crowd, but that's nothing.”
“And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you look as you go swinging
along?”
“Do I? That's the only time then.”
“Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. Where did you learn
the scythe?”
“Where? Right here where we had to, Dick and I. By the way, he's coming
home to-day.” He glanced at her face quickly as he said this, but her
face showed only a frank pleasure.
“To-day? Good. Won't your mother be glad?”
“Yes. And some other people, too,” said Barney.
“And who, particularly?”
A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, but recovering himself,
“Well, I guess I will, myself, a little. This is the first time he has
ever been away. We never slept a night apart from each other as long
as I can mind till he went to college last year. He used to put his
arm just round me here,” touching his breast. “I'll tell you the first
nights after he went I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick to
find the place empty.”
“Well,” said the girl doubtfully, “I hope he won't be different. College
does make a difference, you know.”
“Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash the daylights out of him.
But he won't be different. Not to us, nor,” he added shyly, “to you.”
“Oh, to me?” She laughed lightly. “He had better not try any airs with
me.”
“What would you do?” inquired Barney. “You couldn't take it out of his
hide.”
“Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down,” she replied with a knowing shake
of her head.
“Poor Dick! He's in for a hard time,” replied Barney. “But nothing can
change Dick. And I am awful glad he's coming to-day, in time for the
raising, too.”
“The raising? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I remember. And,” regretfully,
“a big supper and a big spree afterwards in the new barn.”
“Are not you going?” inquired Barney.
“I don't know. They want me to go to help, but I don't think I'll go. I
don't think father would like me to go, and,”--a pause--“anyway, I don't
think I can get away.”
“Oh, pshaw! Get Old Nancy in. She can take care of the children for
once. You would like the raising. It's great fun.”
“Oh! wouldn't I, though? It's fine to see them racing. They get so wild
and yell so.”
“Well, come on then. You must come. They'll all be disappointed, if you
don't. And Dick is coming that way, too. Alec Murray is to bring him on
his way home from town.” Again Barney glanced keenly at her face, but he
saw only puzzled uncertainty there.
“Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I must go now.”
“Wait,” cried Barney, “I'll go with you. We're having dinner early
to-day.” He hung up the scythe in the thorn tree and threw the stone at
the foot.
“I wish you would promise to come,” he said earnestly.
“Do you, really?” The blue eyes turned full upon him.
“Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you are there.” The
frank, boyish honesty of his tone seemed to disappoint the blue eyes.
Together in silence they set off down the lane.
“Well,” she said, resuming their conversation, “I don't think I can go,
but I'll see. You'll be playing for the dancing, I suppose?”
“No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess he'll be there. I may
spell him a little perhaps.”
“Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great at that, I know.”
“Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy! He's a bird! You ought to
see him! I'll make him do the Highland Fling.”
“Oh, Dick, Dick!” she cried impatiently, “everything is Dick with you.”
Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, “Yes. I guess
you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next to my mother,
Dick is the finest in all the world.”
At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene
spread out before them.
“There,” said Barney, “if I live to be a hundred years, I can't forget
that,” and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he continued, “I tell
you what, with the moon just over the pond there making a track of
light across the pond--” She glanced shyly at him. The sombre eyes were
looking far away.
“I know,” she said softly; “it must be lovely.”
Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical
cadence a call long and clear, “Who-o-o-hoo.”
“That's mother,” said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout.
“You'll be in time for dinner.”
“Dinner!” she cried with a gasp. “I'll have to get my buttermilk and
other things and hurry home.” And she ran at full speed down the hill
and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too
hot to run.
“How are you, Mrs. Boyle?” she panted. “I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after
father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know.”
Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face.
“Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting you
run.”
“Letting me!” she laughed defiantly. “Indeed, he had all he could do to
keep up.”
“And that I had,” said Barney, “and, mother, tell her she must come to
the raising.”
“And are you not going?” said the older woman.
“I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me to be
at the dance.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, “but you might just come
with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will be doing
you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this
afternoon.”
“Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought.”
“Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house.”
Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log
milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool over
the gravelly floor.
“What a lovely place,” said Margaret, stepping along the foot stones.
“Ay, it's clean and sweet,” said Mrs. Boyle. “And that is what you most
need with the milk and butter.”
She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's
pail with buttermilk.
“Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones.”
“Och, yes!” said Mrs. Boyle. “There's no recipe at all. It is just this
way--” And she elucidated the mysteries of sconemaking.
“But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure,” cried Margaret, in
despair.
“Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner
past, and we will call for you on our way.”
“Here, lassie,” she cried, “your father will like this. It is only
churned th' day.” She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen cloth,
laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket.
“Good-bye,” said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. “You're far too
kind to me.”
“Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be kinder. It's a good girl
you are, and a brave one.”
“Not very brave, I fear,” replied the girl, as she quickly turned away
and ran up the hill and out of sight.
“Poor motherless lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, looking after her with loving
eyes; “it's a heavy care she has, and the minister, poor man, he can't
see it. Well, well, she has the promise.”
III
THE RAISING
The building of a bank-barn was a watershed in farm chronology. Toward
that event or from it the years took their flight. For many summers the
big boulders were gathered from the fields and piled in a long heap at
the bottom of the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, the
foundation of the bank-barn. During the winter, previous the “timber was
got out.” From the forest trees, maple, beech or elm--for the pine was
long since gone--the main sills, the plates, the posts and cross-beams
were squared and hauled to the site of the new barn. Hither also the
sand from the pit at the big hill, and the stone from the heap at the
bottom of the lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite gone
the lighter lumber--flooring, scantling, sheeting and shingles--were
marshalled to the scene of action. Then with the spring the masons and
framers appeared and began their work of organising from this mass of
material the structure that was to be at once the pride of the farm and
the symbol of its prosperity.
From the very first the enterprise was carried on under the
acknowledged, but none the less critical, observation of the immediate
neighbourhood. For instance, it had been a matter of free discussion
whether “them timbers of McLeod's new barn wasn't too blamed heavy,”
and it was Jack McKenzie's openly expressed opinion that “one of them
'purline plates' was so all-fired crooked that it would do for both
sides at onct.” But the confidence of the community in Jack Murray,
framer, was sufficiently strong to allay serious forebodings. And by the
time the masons had set firm and solid the many-coloured boulders in
the foundation, the community at large had begun to take interest in the
undertaking.
The McLeod raising was to be an event of no ordinary importance. It
had the distinction of being, in the words of Jack Murray, framer,
“the biggest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts.” Indeed, so
magnificent were its dimensions that Ben Fallows, who stood just five
feet in his stocking soles, and was, therefore, a man of considerable
importance in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an air of
finality, “What! two twenty-foot floors and two thirty-foot mows! It
cawn't be did.” Such was, therefore, the magnitude of the undertaking,
and such the far-famed hospitality of the McLeods, that no man within
the range of the family acquaintance who was not sick, or away from
home, or prevented by some special act of Providence, failed to appear
at the raising that day.
It was still the early afternoon, but most of the men invited were
already there when the mill people drove up in the family democrat. The
varied shouts of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their popularity.
“Hello, Barney! Good-day, Mrs. Boyle,” said Mr. McLeod, who stood at the
gate receiving his guests.
“Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy,” shouted Tom Magee, a
big, good-natured son of Erin, the richness of whose brogue twenty years
of life in Canada had failed to impoverish.
“We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day,” replied the miller, as
with tender care he handed the green bag containing his precious violin
to his wife.
“No, indeed, Mr. Boyle,” replied Mr. McLeod. “The girls yonder would
hardly forgive us if Charley Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'll
find some oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. Boyle. The wife
will be glad of your help to keep those wild colts in order yonder, eh,
Margaret, lassie?”
“Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be needing to be kept in
order,” replied Mrs. Boyle.
“Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle,” replied Mr. McLeod. “A girl
with an eye and a chin like that may break through any time, and then
woe betide you.”
“Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me,” said Margaret, springing
lightly over the wheel and turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the
house, which was humming with that indescribable but altogether
bewitching medley of sounds that only a score or two of girls
overflowing with life can produce.
“Come along, Charley,” roared Magee. “We're waitin' to make ye the
boss.”
“All right, Tom,” replied the little man, with a quiet chuckle. “If you
make me the boss, here's my orders, Up you get yourself and take hold of
the gang. What do you say, men?”
“Ay, that's it.” “Tom it is.” “Jump in, Tom,” were the answering shouts.
“Aw now,” said Tom, “there's better than me here. Take Big Angus there.
He's the man fer ye! Or what's the matter wid me frind, Rory Ross? It's
the foine boss he'd make fer yez! Sure, he'll put the fire intil ye!”
There was a general laugh at this reference to the brilliant colour of
Rory's hair and face.
“Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee,” said the fiery-headed,
fiery-hearted little Highlander. “When he's wanted, ye'll not find him
far away, I'se warrant ye.”
There was no love lost between the two men. Both were framers, both
famous captains, and more than once had they led the opposing forces at
raisings. The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was relieved
by Charley Boyle's ready wit.
“We'll divide the work, boys,” he said. “Some men do the liftin' and
others the yellin'. Tom and me'll do the yellin'.”
A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose reputation as a worker
was none too brilliant.
“All right then, boys,” roared Tom. “Ye'll have to take it. Git togither
an' quit yer blowin'.” He cast an experienced eye over the ground where
the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the uninitiated would seem
wild confusion.
“Them's the sills,” he cried. “Where's the skids?”
“Right under yer nose, Tom,” said the framer quietly.
“Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids! Now thin, fer the sills.
Grab aholt, min, they're not hot! All togither-r-r--heave!
Togither-r-r--heave! Once more, heave! Walk her up, boys! Walk her up!
Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone to? Move over, two av ye!
Don't take advantage av a little man loike that!” Angus was just six
feet four. “Now thin, yer pikes! Shove her along! Up she is! Steady!
Cant her over! How's that, framer? More to the east, is it? Climb up
on her, ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid her!
Togither-r-r--heave! Aw now, where are ye goin'? Don't be too
rambunctious! Ye'll be afther knockin' a hole in to-morrow mornin'. Back
a little now! Whoa! How's that, framer? Will that suit yer riverence?
All right. Now thin, the nixt! Look lively there! The gurls are comin'
down to pick the winners, an a small chance there'll be fer some of
yez.”
And so with this running fire of exhortation, more or less pungent, the
sills were got in place upon the walls, pinned and spliced.
“Now thin, min fer the bints!”
The “bents” were the cross sections of heavy square timbers which,
fastened together with cross ties, formed the framework of the barn.
Dividing his men into groups, the bents were put together on the barn
floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, each one being firmly
joined to the one previously erected.
“Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins!” admonished Tom. “We don't want
no slitherin' timbers round here when we get into the ruction a little
later on!”
In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it was nearly five before
the last bent was reached. One by one they had fitted into their places,
but not without some few hitches, each of which was the occasion for
an outburst of exhortations on the part of the boss, more or less
sulphurous, although the presence of the ladies interfered very
considerably with Tom's fluency in this regard. He worked his men like
galley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. But for the most part they
took it all with good humour, though some few who had the misfortune to
fall specially under his tongue began to show signs that the lash had
bitten into the raw. The timbers of the last bent were specially heavy,
and the men, more or less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring
to their work with the alacrity that Tom deemed suitable.
“At it, min!” he roared. “Snatch it alive! Begob, ye'd think it
was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're so tinder about it! Now thin!
Togither-r-r--heave! Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that
time! Stidy there a minute! Here you min on that pike, what in the
blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one ind loike a swarm av bees on a cowld
day! Shift over there, will ye!”
In obedience to the word two pike-poles were withdrawn at the same
moment, leaving only a single pike with Big Angus and two others to
sustain the full weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent
swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. Some of the men
sprang back from under the huge bent. It was a moment of supreme peril.
“Howld there, fer yer lives, ye divils!” howled Tom, “or the hull of
ye'll be in hell in two howly minutes.”
At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's side and threw themselves
upon the pike. Immediately they were followed by others, and the
calamity was averted.
“Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye!” cried Tom. But there was
a new note in Tom's voice, the note that is heard when men stand in the
presence of serious danger. There was no more pause. The bent was
walked up to its place, pinned and made secure. Tom sprang down from the
building, his face white, his voice shaking. “Give me yer hand, Barney
Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the saints an' the Blessid
Virgin, ye saved min's lives this day!”
Around the two crowded the men, shaking their hands and clapping them
on the back with varied exclamations. “You're the lads!” “Good boys!”
“You're the stuff!” “Put it there!”
“What are ye doin' to us?” cried Rory at last; “I didn't see anything
happen. Did you, Barney?”
“We did, though,” answered the crowd.
For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about among the crowd chewing
hard upon his quid of tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had
seen as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from which the men
had been saved. It was Charley Boyle that again relieved the strain.
“Did any of you hear the cowbell?” he said. “It strikes me it's not
quitting time yet. Better get your captains, hadn't you?”
“Rory and Tom for captains!” cried a voice.
“Not me, by the powers!” said Tom.
“Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be all right. Get your men.”
“All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a pin onct in the same
place, let alone twice. By me sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an'
brains I've jist been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney
there. He's the man, I kin tell ye.”
This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy.
“Barney it is!” “Rory and Barney!” they yelled.
“Me!” cried Barney, seeking to escape through the crowd. “I have never
done anything but carry pins and braces at a raising all my life.”
There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in all the crowd had
Barney's reputation for agility, nerve and quickness.
“Carry pins, is it?” said Tom. “Ye can carry yer head level, me boy. So
at it ye go, an' ye'll bate Rory fer me, so ye will.”
“Well then,” cried Barney, “I will, if you give me first choice, and
I'll take Tom here.”
“Hooray!” yelled Tom, “I'm wid ye.” So it was agreed, and in a few
minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as
last choice.
“We'll give ye Ben,” said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. “We
don't want to hog on ye too much.”
“Never you mind, Ben,” said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to
his place among Rory's men. “You'll earn your supper to-day with the
best of them.”
“If I cawn't hearn it I can heat it, by Jove!” cried Ben, to the huge
delight of the crowd.
And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for from this point out there
was to be a life-and-death contest as to which side should complete each
its part of the structure first. The main plates, the “purline” plates,
posts and braces, the rafters and collar beams, must all be set securely
in position. The side whose last man was first down from the building
after its work was done claimed the victory. In two opposing lines a
hundred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, in case of those told off
to “ride” the plates, boots discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were,
quick of eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of foot, men
to be depended upon whether to raise a barn or to build an empire. The
choice of sides fell to Rory, who took the north, or bank, side.
“Niver fret, Barney,” cried Tom Magee, who in the near approach of
battle was his own man again. “Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, an'
the more air for us the better.”
Between the sides stood the framer ready to give the word.
“Aren't they splendid!” said Margaret in a low tone to Mrs. Boyle, her
cheek pale and her blue eyes blazing with excitement. “Oh, if I were
only a boy!”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Boyle, “ye'd be riding the plate, I doubt.”
“Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!” answered the girl, with her eyes
upon Barney. And more eyes than hers were upon the young captain, whose
rugged face showed pale even at that distance.
“Now then, men,” cried the framer. “Mind your pins. Are you ready?”
holding his hat high in the air.
“Ready,” answered Rory.
Barney nodded.
“Git then!” he cried, flinging his hat hard on the ground. Like hounds
after a hare in full sight, like racers springing from the tape,
they leaped at the timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men
possessed. At once the admiring female friends broke into rival camps,
wildly enthusiastic, fiercely partisan.
“Well done, Rory! He's up first!” cried a girl whose brilliant
complexion and still more brilliant locks proclaimed her relationship to
the captain of the north side.
“Huh! Barney'll soon catch him, you'll see,” cried Margaret. “Oh,
Barney, hurry! hurry!”
“Indeed, he will need to hurry,” cried Rory's sister, mercilessly
exultant. “He's up! He's up!”
Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate over the bent, had
just “broken it down,” and in half a minute, seized by the men detailed
for this duty, it was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men
with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just as the second half
was making its appearance over the bent, to be seized and placed and
pinned as its mate had been.
“He's won! He's won!” shrieked Rory's admiring faction.
“Barney! Barney!” screamed his contingent reproachfully.
“Well done, Rory! Keep at it! You've got them beaten!”
“Beaten, indeed!” was the scornful reply. “Just wait a minute.”
“They're at the 'purlines'!” shrieked Rory's sister, and her friends,
proceeding to scream wildly after the female method of expressing
emotion under such circumstances.
“My!” sniffed a contemptuous member of Barney's faction, suffering
unutterable pangs of humiliation. “Some people don't mind making a show
of themselves.”
“Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry?” cried Margaret, to whose eager spirit
Barney's movements seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow.
But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men into squads, he had been
carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of
his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been
making ready the “purlines” and laying the rafters in order so that,
although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once
his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in
more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters
moved to their positions as if by magic. Consequently, though when they
arrived at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the rest of his
rafters were lifted almost as one into their places.
At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up to this point had been
enduring the poignant pangs of what looked like humiliating defeat,
rose in a tumult of triumph to heights of bliss inexpressible, save by a
series of ear-piercing but altogether rapturous shrieks.
“They're down! They're down!” screamed Margaret, dancing in an ecstasy
of joy, while hand over hand down posts, catching at braces, slipping,
sliding, springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from incredible
distances to the ground. Suddenly through all the tumultuous shouts of
victory a heart-rending scream rang out, followed by a shuddering groan
and dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped from its
splicing, the pin having been neglected in the furious haste, and
swinging free, fell crashing through the timbers upon the scurrying,
scrambling men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent Rory, who
was madly entreating a laggard to drop to the earth, but who, flung by
good fortune against a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path
of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, but striking
at last with smashing cruel force across the ankle of poor little Ben
Fallows, in the act of sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment
two or three men were beside him. He was lifted up groaning and
screaming and carried to an open grassy spot. After some moments of
confusion Barney was seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry after his
horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked together, a mattress and pillow
placed thereon, to which Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly
lifted.
“I'll go wid ye,” said Tom Magee, throwing on his coat and hat.
Before they drove out of the yard the little Englishman pulled himself
together. “Stop a bit, Barney,” he said. He beckoned Rory to his side.
“Tell them,” he said between his gasps, “not to spoil their supper for
me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess perhaps I hearned it.”
“And that you did, lad,” cried Rory. “No man better, and I'll tell
them.”
The men who were standing near and who had heard Ben's words broke out
into admiring expletives, “Good boy, Benny!” “Benny's the stuff!” till
finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, “Three cheers
for Benny!” and the feelings of the crowd, held in check for so many
minutes, at length found expression in three times three, and with the
cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his drawn face, poor
Ben, forgetting his agony for the time, was borne away on his three-mile
drive to the doctor.
The raising was over, but no man asked which side had won.
IV
THE DANCE
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.