which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full
scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By
some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so
that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the
singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day
was complete. A single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs,
hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at
the last, “for the children and the mothers,” the teacher said, one soft
lullaby in which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the
low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their
lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values
that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way.
The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees,
parents, and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air
of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small
degree to heighten the whole effect of the day.
The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret.
“Isn't she a wonder?” cried Dick. “What has she done to those little
blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!”
“Yes, yes,” replied the minister, “it is quite surprising, indeed.”
“In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a
while,” continued Dick.
“Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself
cleverly.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dick, with a slight laugh. “That was a clever bit of
work on the part of the teacher.”
“Oh, shut up, Dick!” said Barney sharply.
“Oh, well,” replied Dick, “no one expects mathematics from a girl,
anyway.”
“Do you hear the conceit of him?” said his mother indignantly, “and
Margaret there can show all of you the way.”
“Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever
you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link Young was
quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his
life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates.”
“We will just wait a year,” said his mother. “It is a new broom that
sweeps clean.”
“Now, mother, you are too hard to please.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, grimly closing her lips.
As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently
been pondering Dick's words, said, “Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a
delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And
after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to
read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would
seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take
Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance.”
At which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing
had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater
poignancy.
But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that,
at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the
trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon
the sole qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It
was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing
of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were
moved to immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part
to leave the matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands,
however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business
when, there and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher,
although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid
in the section before.
VI
THE YOUNG DOCTOR
Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a
square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge
and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of
character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which
he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He
would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult
the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy
interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself,
with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose
briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and
asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an
hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when
the boy refused it.
“What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his only
son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty.
Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my
boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But--” Here the doctor
snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. “Confound
these foggy nights! I'll put you through.”
“I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll stay at home.”
“What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy.
“I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?”
“No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded fool and work up
by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the
last year, when he must attend college.”
“I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws.
The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like
a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if I
don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.”
The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched.
“Oh, you can!” he cried impulsively, “and I'll be awfully thankful. You
can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you
have time.” His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a
favour.
The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first
time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of
study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he
waved his hand toward his library.
“Now, there are my books,” he cried; “use them and ask me what you will.
It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's
help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers
and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The
physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He guesses
and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing
and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!” Here the
doctor rose and began to pace the floor. “There's no guess in the knife
point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at
that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the
physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the
postmortem”--here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice
almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy--“at the post-mortem the
knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery
was made too late.” These were the days before appendicitis became
fashionable. “Now, listen to me,” continued the doctor, even more
impressively, “I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment
might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long,
the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of
weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great
surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these,” and he held
up a coarse, heavy hand; “I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought
me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which
settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the
nerve--plenty of men have that--but you've also got the fingers, which
few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical
ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great surgeon!
But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink
bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!”
he cried, waving his great hands. “And remember!”--here his voice took
a solemn tone--“let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the
women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind,
disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the
finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till
you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time
at your command.” At these words the boy's face, which had caught the
light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell.
“Well, what now?” cried the doctor, reading his face like a book.
“I have no right to take your books or your time.”
The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced
him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly
regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes
softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder.
“Now, by the Lord that made you and me!” he said, “we were meant for a
team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay.” The
boy's face brightened.
“How?” he cried eagerly.
“We'll change work.” The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. “I want
fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled.”
“I'll do it!” cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his
face. At last he saw his path.
“Here,” said the doctor, taking down a book, “here's your Gray.” And
turning the leaves, “Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And
here's the treatment,” pulling down another book and turning to a page,
“Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it,
anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs three things, cleanliness,
good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that
Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you,
grind you, and you'll go for your first examination next spring.”
“Next spring!” cried Barney, aghast, “not for three years.”
“Three years!” snorted the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! You can do this
first examination by next spring.”
“Yes. I could do it,” said Barney slowly.
The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face.
“But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college.”
“Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?”
The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in
its cracks and canyons.
“Because--well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful
clever.” Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. “Mother
wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after a pause, “I do, too.”
The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few
minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. “I
understand, boy,” he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender
tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want,
but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife.”
The boy went home to his mother in high exultation.
“The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. “He is
going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness,
good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get
good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than
I can tell.”
“Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. How many has she
now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?”
“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.”
“Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow
the figure to remain at that.”
“Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking with the
confidence of intimate knowledge.
“Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a question whether it's
worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept
the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive
tree.”
“Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.”
“Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific
Mrs. Fallows!”
“Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't talk
foolishly.”
“But you said four, mother.”
“Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney.
“Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let us hope she won't get the habit.”
“But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously, “what's to be done?”
“Indeed, I can't tell,” said his mother.
“Listen to me,” cried Dick, “I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the
'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this worthy service.
Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't
you?”
“We will see,” said the mother quietly; “we will do our best.”
“In that case the 'food department' is secure,” said Dick; “already I
see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence.”
It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three
departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making
Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in
Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger
of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular
imagination.
“Microbes? What's them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously.
“Very small insects.”
“Insects? Is it bugs you mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely
hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this
'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to
me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to
'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with bugs,
an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'”
It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes
was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that
these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles,
that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated
his “good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with
the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain
articles of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results.
Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that
furnished by the “good cheer” department. This was left entirely
in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the
enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his
mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade
Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other
duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly
with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat
unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more
suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola
and himself in the “good cheer” department and Barney in what he called
the “scavenging” department could achieve, there was still need of
Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest
time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and,
relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom,
with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows
household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them.
Altogether the “young doctor,” as Ben called him, had reason to be proud
of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation
healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few
weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in
his praises of the “young doctor.” It was the “young doctor” who, by
changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which
followed the first dressing. It was the “young doctor” who had changed
the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, bringing ease where
there had been chafing pain.
“Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want,” was Ben's final conclusion,
“but fer me, the young doctor, sez I.”
VII
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT
The “good cheer” department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, wrought
profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it no one but
himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent frankness, kept
the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his new
work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new ambitions, the “good
cheer” department was chiefly valued as an important factor in Ben's
progress. To Iola it brought what to her was the breath of life,
admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more than any,
not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what might
be called its by-products. The daily monotony of her household duties
bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though
cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite
abandoned without a sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the
work of the department in the monotony of her life, the companionship
of its members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her
keen sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly
cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra effort
which her membership in the department rendered necessary.
It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick
with Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at the
Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as
she was about to depart to town for her holidays.
“I have come to say good-bye,” she announced as she shook hands with
Mrs. Fallows.
“Good-bye, dear 'eart,” said that lady, throwing up her hands aghast;
“art goin' to leave us fer good?”
“No, nothing so bad,” said Dick; “only for a few weeks, Mrs. Fallows.
The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees have decided that
they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string on her.”
“Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' to
leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as
'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more.”
“I don't wonder,” said Dick. “Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged her,
as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in the
section.'”
“Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, if I
may.”
“An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!” said Mrs. Fallows, picking up a
twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the inner
room. “Ther' now,” she continued to Margaret, who was moving about
putting things to rights, “don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I know things
is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things piles up terr'ble, an'
I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to straighten 'em up. Jest
look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin'
with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all
I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their
backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the
rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,'
sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' cleverlike,
is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!” she continued in
an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from
the next room. “An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a
sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' a-mutilatin'
of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at more'n my
share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits 'is
hamputation an' 'is splits.”
“His splints,” cried Margaret; “are they all right now?”