Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark,
with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother
a wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an
understanding of their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, and he
would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken,
that had smitten him as he cried, “Oh, Barney! is it possible?” Then, as
Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing,
as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a
gleam of hope, had cried, “We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help
you this summer.” And then again the inevitableness of what had taken
place had come over him at Barney's reply: “But, Dick, I don't want to
get out of it.” At that moment Dick's world changed. No longer was
he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place. In vain Barney,
guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost
piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first
acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter
reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now
that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in
the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair
to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. “It's that
confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got
something diabolically fetching about her.” Then, as if he had gone too
far, he continued, still musing aloud, “She's good enough, I guess, but
not for Barney.” That was one of the bitter things that had survived the
night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal
of high manhood ever since he could think. “But there is no one
good enough for Barney,” he continued, “except--yes--there is
one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney.” As Barney among
men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his
life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying
his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always
come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney
in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of
honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than
anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get
to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love
there.
It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him
this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the
thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness,
and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made
him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that
feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the
thought of Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her
unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high
spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never
for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should
have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering
of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to
Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With
such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him
go “pay his duty to the minister,” his heart responded with so great a
leap of joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those
about him, sure that they must have noticed.
And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make
acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered
what he should say to her. What would she be doing now? He glanced at
his watch. It was just ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She
might come for a little stroll in the woods at the back of the manse,
but he would say nothing to her to-day. He would wait and watch to read
her heart. He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the fence, to go
on his way. A gleam of white through the snake fence against the pink
of the clover caught his eye. Under the thorn tree--he knew the spot
well--and upon the grass, lay a girl. “By Jove!” he whispered, his heart
stopping, thumping, then rushing, “it is Margaret.” He would creep up
and surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. He was close
to her. He held his breath. She lay asleep, one arm under her head, the
other flung wide in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing down
upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin and weary. The lines about
her mouth and eyes spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older she
was than he had thought! “Poor girl! she has been having a hard time!
It's a shame, a downright shame! And she's only a child yet!” At the
thought of her long sacrifice for those three past years a great pity
stole into his heart. At that touch of pity the love that had ever
filled his heart, dammed back for so long by his regard for his
brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, burst forth and
swept like a torrent through his being. He lost grip of himself and,
before he knew, he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her lips.
A long shivering sigh shook her. “Barney,” she murmured, a slight smile
playing about her lips. She opened her eyes. A moment she lay looking up
into Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat upright.
“You! Dick!” she cried, surprise, indignation, shame, mingling in her
voice. “You--you dare to--”
“Yes, Margaret,” said Dick, aghast at what he had done, “I couldn't help
it. You looked so sweet and so sad, and--and I love you so much.”
“You,” cried the girl again, as if she could find no other word. “What
did you say?”
“I said, Margaret,” he replied, gathering his courage together, “that I
love you so much.”
“You love me?” she gasped.
“Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night.”
“Last night?” she echoed, with her eyes upon his face, now grown pale,
but illuminated with a light she had never seen there before.
“Yes, last night. It was always there, Margaret,” he hurried to say,
“but only last night I found out I might love you. I never let myself
go. I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Barney--” At the mention
of his brother's name, the face that had been white with a look almost
of horror flamed quickly with red. “Last night,” continued Dick,
wondering at the change in her, “I found out, and this morning,
Margaret, the whole world is just humming with joy because I know I may
love you all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined a fellow could
hold so much love or so much joy. Do you understand me, Margaret? Do
you knew what I am talking about?” Margaret's face had grown pale and
haggard, as with pain, and her eyes were wide open with pity.
“Yes, Dick,” she said slowly, “I know. I have just been learning.” The
brave lips quivered, but she kept firm hold of herself. “I know all the
joy and--all the pain.” She stopped short at the look in Dick's face.
The buoyant, glad light flickered and went out. A look of perplexity,
of great fear, and then of desolation, like that on her own face, spread
over his. He knew her too well to misunderstand her meaning. She leaned
over to him, still kneeling in the grass. “Oh, Dick, dear!” she cried,
taking his hand in hers with a mother-touch and tone, “must you suffer,
too? Oh, don't say you must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my pain!”
Her voice rose in a cry, broke into a sob, but still she held him with
her eyes.
“Do you say I must?” he answered in a hoarse tone. “I love you with all
my heart.”
“Oh, don't Dick, dear,” she pleaded, “don't say it!”
“Yes, I will,” he said, recovering his voice, “because it's true. And
I'm glad it's true. I'm glad that I can at last let myself love you. It
was only last night when Barney told me about Iola, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly.
“I had always thought that it was you, and I was glad to think so for
Barney. But last night”--here a quick flash of joy came into his face at
the memory--“I found out, and this morning I could hardly help shouting
it as I came along to you.” He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took
her hand. “Don't you think, Margaret, you might perhaps some time.” The
piteous entreaty in his voice broke down the girl's proud courage.
“Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!” she sobbed, “don't! Don't ask me!” Her sobs came
tempestuously.
He put his arms about her and, stroking her yellow hair, gently said,
“Never mind, little girl. Don't do that! I can't stand that, and--well,
I won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think about me. I'll get
hold of myself. There now--hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that!” He
held her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet.
At length she drew away, saying, “I don't know why I should act like
this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard
winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it
was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me
horrid,” she went on hurriedly. “I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you.
But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you
that, Dick, no one knows.” She sat up straight, her courage coming back.
“I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware.”
A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint
flush touched her pale cheek. “But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't
we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?” Dick had been looking
at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes a
look of misery that went to the girl's heart.
“Forget!” he cried. “Tell me how.”
She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, “Oh,
Dick! must we go on and on like this?” She pressed her hands hard upon
her heart. “There's a sore, sore pain right here,” she said. “Is there
to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years.” She
was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more he caught her in
his strong brown hands.
“Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow.
God--yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He
can't let us go on like this!”
The words steadied her.
“I know, Dick,” she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, “there has
been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. He will
help you, too. Come,” she continued, “let us go.”
“No, sit down and talk,” replied Dick. He looked at his watch. “A
quarter after ten,” he said, in surprise. “Can the whole world change in
one little quarter of an hour?” he asked, looking up at her, “it was ten
when I stopped at the hill.”
“Come, Dick,” she said again, “we'll talk another time, I can't trust
myself just now. I was going to your mother's.”
But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him
as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and
he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings.
“I can't, Margaret,” he said. “You go. Let me fight it out.”
She knew too well where he was. “No, Dick, I will not leave you here.
Come, do.” She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his
neck and kissed him. “Help me, Dick,” she whispered.
It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once,
and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and
again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse,
passionate tones, “I love you! I love you!” For a few moments she
suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him.
Her action recalled him to himself.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” he cried brokenly, “I'm a great, selfish brute.
I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again,
don't think me quite a cad.”
He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load,
gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the
lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near.
X
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR
“Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?” asked Dr. Bulling of
Iola.
They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it
was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant.
Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey
corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table,
spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious
art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room
stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was
Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends
gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took
it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite
to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the
fireplace that had determined the choice of the room.
As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden
splendour.
“Yes, of course,” she cried.
“And why 'of course'?” inquired the doctor.
“Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his
gold medal.”
“And who is that, pray?”
“Mr. Boyle.”
“Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have
seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather
crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?”
“Yes,” replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, “he is from the
country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years ago. So
you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think
you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's
darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as
yet”--this with a little bow to her visitor--“but some day he will be
great. And, besides, he is very nice.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” said the doctor, “seeing he is a friend of
yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and
will be glad to call for you.” The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of
condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice.
“You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner
to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going with friends.”
“Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” There was an
almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the
more sweetly.
“Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle.
In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I
think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.”
“Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a
saint, isn't she?”
“A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her
voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest
girl I know.”
“I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with an air of
dismissing her.
“Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager
enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years
she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most
wonderful way. Looked after me, too.”
“Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, sure enough.”
“Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country,
and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.”
“And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor.
“Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and,
on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has
been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home,
which is not often, and still takes care of me.”
“Most fortunate young lady she is,” murmured the doctor.
“So I am going with them,” continued Iola.
“Then I suppose nobody will see you.” The doctor's tone was quite
gloomy.
“Why, I love to see all my friends.”
“It will be the usual thing,” said the doctor, “the same circle crowding
you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you.”
“That depends on how much you--” cried Iola, throwing a swift smile at
him.
“How much I want to?” interrupted the doctor eagerly. “You know quite
well I--”
“How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to
all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How
ever,” she continued, “one can hardly expect to see much of the very
popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up.”
“Oh, rot!” said the doctor. “I say, can't we get off a little together?
There are nice quiet nooks about the old building.”
“Oh, doctor, how shocking!” But her eyes belied her voice, and
the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant
convocation day at Trinity.
The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the
students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean
and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be
the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body
finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was
the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way
of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had
to take part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly
uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some
favourite. At no point was the fervour greater than when Barney was
called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends at the left
of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed
as if the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the
occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties
he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the
perseverance and indomitable courage the young man had shown, and the
singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the
special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence
that pervaded the room was even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers
that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney had
taken his place again among the graduating class.
Then someone called out, “What's the matter with old Carbuncle?”
eliciting the usual vociferous reply, “He's all right!”
“By Jove,” said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, “isn't that great?
And the old boy deserves it every bit!” But Margaret made no reply. She
was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in
each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he
noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears.
“It's all right, little girl,” he whispered, giving her hand a little
pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look in her
eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat.
On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and
joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the
face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full
of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had
endured for the last three years were quite worth while.
After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the
little group about Barney.
“Congratulations, Boyle,” he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of
a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his parchment in his
hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes, “that
was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day.”
Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's
tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the
familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it
made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed
to be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself
to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation
of him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words
Dr. Bulling took himself off.
“Brute!” said Barney as the doctor retired.
“Why, I am sure he seems very nice,” said Iola, raising her eyebrows in
surprise.
“Nice!” said Barney contemptuously. “If you knew how the men speak of
him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in the
swim, but he's a beast, all the same.”
“Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!” cried Iola, “for you know he's been a
great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him.”
Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave
Barney, took the sting out of her words.
Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly
because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own
admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling,
who finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness,
carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for
Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of
the afternoon Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and
his little coterie of friends.
And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against
Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital
staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the
exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into
closer touch with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also
to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical
men in the city. For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost
as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition
of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had
been invited, and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day
to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his
steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and
his large social connection than for his professional standing, had been
invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him
about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner
was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines
abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result that
as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about
Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water
and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention divided
between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with
his friends, sat across the table. As this group became more boisterous,
they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole company.
Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him,
and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became increasingly
offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became more and
more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of
this kind, and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no
means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone.
Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was
about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by a look
of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend.
“Disgusting brute!” said Trent, in a low voice.
But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling.
He had his glass in his hand.
“Here's to the Lane!” he was saying, “the sweetest little Lane in all
the world!”
“She's divine!” replied Foxmore. “And what a voice! She'll make Canada
famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?”
“In church,” replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his
followers. “That's right,” he continued, “heard her sing, set things in
motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her
to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the
city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet little lane it
is,” he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made
Barney grind his teeth in furious rage.
“That she is,” said Smead enthusiastically, “and thoroughly straight,
too!”
“Oh,” said Foxmore, “there's no lane but has a turning. And trust
Bulling,” he added coarsely, “for finding it out.”
“Well,” said Bulling, with a knowing smile, “this little Lane is
straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's lines run
in curves, you know.” And again his wit provoked applauding laughter.
But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice was heard, clear and
cutting.
“Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!” The words were plainly audible to
every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company.
“What?” said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not heard
aright.
“I say you are a cowardly liar!”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I
say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so.”
For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent.
“Quite right,” said Trent. “Beastly cad!”
Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. “You impertinent young cub! What do you
mean?”
For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and
flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man
was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice.
“Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!”
“No hurry about this, boys,” said Bulling quietly; “I'll make him eat
his words before he's half an hour older.”
Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. “Let me at him. He's a great
knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything about
it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up.” Dick had been 'varsity
champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern
words.
“Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere
to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it
may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him.”
Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease
the doctor and to patch up the peace.
“If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off,” were the doctor's
terms.
“If he says he lied,” was Barney's condition.