was--By the livin' jumpin' Jemima! Barney!”
It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on the doctor. With two swift
steps the doctor was at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked
him swiftly apart.
“Ben,” he said, in a low, stern voice, “not a word. I once did you a
good turn?”
Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech.
“Then listen to what I tell you. No one must know what you know now.”
“But--but Miss Margaret and Dick--” gasped Ben.
“They don't know,” interrupted the doctor, “and must not know. Will you
promise me this, Ben?”
“By Jove, Barney! I don't--I don't think--”
“Do you hear me, Ben? Do you promise?”
“Yes, by the livin'--”
“Good-bye, Ben; I think I can depend on you for the sake of old days.”
The doctor's smile set Ben's head in a whirl.
“You bet, Bar--Doctor!” he cried.
“Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad.”
He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off into the eddy just above
the falls by which the Big Horn plunged into the Goat.
“Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur!” sang out Duprez. “You cache hup de
preechere. He pass on de riviere las' night.”
“What? Who?”
“De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe las' night. He's camp on de
Beeg Fall, s'pose.”
Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. “Went up last night, did he?”
“Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's go ver' seeck. He send for
M'sieu Boyle.”
“Did he go up alone?”
“Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good man on de canoe.”
It was an awkward situation. There was a very good chance that he should
fall in with his brother somewhere on the trip, and that, at all costs,
he was determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat holding his
canoe, calculating time and distances. At length he came to a resolve.
He must visit the camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own ingenuity
to avoid the meeting he dreaded.
“All right, Duprez! bon jour.”
“Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare a vous on de Longue Rapide. You mak' de
portage hon dat rapide, n'est ce pas?”
“No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run her.”
“Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur,” answered Duprez, shrugging his
shoulders. “Maudit! Dat's ver' fas' water!”
“Don't worry about me,” cried the doctor. “Just watch me take this
little riffle.”
“Bien!” cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his canoe into the eddy and,
with a smooth, noiseless stroke, sent her up toward the point where the
stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid which led to the
falls below. It may be that the doctor was putting a little extra weight
on his paddle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigilance
which the successful handling of the canoe demands, but whatever the
cause, when the swift water struck the canoe, in spite of all his
strength and skill, he soon found himself almost in midstream and going
down the rapids.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Duprez, dancing in his excitement from one foot to
the other. “A droit! a droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come out on de
heddy!”
The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the hopelessness of the
frontal attack upon the rapid, he steered his canoe toward the eddy and
gradually edged her into the quiet water.
“You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar'!” cried Duprez, as the doctor
paddled slowly up the edge past him. “You bes' pass on de portage. Not
many mans go hup on de rapids comme ca.”
“All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's all.”
Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. He had done the thing
before and he was not to be beaten now. As the eddy bore him toward the
swift water again he carefully gauged the angle of attack, so that
when the nose of the canoe entered the riffle, with the trick that all
canoemen know, he held her up firm against the water, and, with no very
great effort, but by skilful manipulations of the force of the current,
he shoved her gradually across the riffle into the slow water near
the farther bank, and with a triumphant wave of the paddle disappeared
around the bend.
“He's good man,” said Duprez to Ben Fallows, who had taken all this
time to recover from the shock of Barney's sudden appearance. “But de
preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau las' night.”
“Did, eh?” answered Ben. “Well, he didn't put in three summers on the
Mattawa fer nothin'. He's a bird in the canoe, an' so's his bro--that
is--the doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him!” Ben was much excited.
“Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for sure!”
Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, swinging stroke, taking
advantage of every eddy and cross current, stealing along the bank under
the overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting his canoe
over rocky bits, till near mid-day he found himself at the portage below
the Long Rapid.
“Guess I'll camp on the other side,” he said, talking aloud after
the manner of men who live much alone. He adjusted his paddles on the
thwarts, hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, and,
taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the half mile portage without
a “set down.”
“There,” he said, setting his canoe carefully on the grass, “my legs are
better than my arms. Now we'll grub.” He unpacked his tea pail, cut his
bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a fire, drew a pail of
water, threw in a handful of tea, swung it by a poplar sapling over the
fire, and sat down to toast his bacon. In fifteen minutes his meal was
ready--such a meal as can be had only in the mountains under the open
sky and at the end of a ten-mile paddle against the stream of the Big
Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched himself in the warm
spring sun for half an hour's quiet think. The old restlessness was
coming back upon him. His work as Medical Superintendent of the railway
construction was practically completed. The medical department was
thoroughly organized and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much
over so far as he was concerned. And with the easing of the strain there
came fiercely upon him the soul fever that had for the last three years
driven him from land to land. Had it not been that his professional
honour demanded that he should hold his post and do his work, he had
long ago left a district where he was kept constantly in mind of what
he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the exercise of the most
assiduous care he had prevented a meeting with his brother during the
last three months. But in this he could not hope to be successful much
longer. Before his second pipe was smoked he had reached his resolve.
“I'll pull out of this,” he said, “once this Big Horn camp is cleaned
up.”
He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, the mark of a right
woodsman, slipped his canoe into the water, and set off again. His
meeting with Ben Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother
near him to-day. Everything was eloquent of those days they had spent
together on the upper reaches of the Ottawa. The flowing river, the open
sky, the wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping canoe spoke
to him of Dick. The fierce resentment, the bitter sense of loss, that
had been as a festering in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day
to have lost their stinging pain. With every lift of the paddle, with
every deep breath of the fragrant spring air, with every slip of the
canoe, the buoyant gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling
into his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself singing, to the
rhythmic swing of paddle and shoulders, the old Habitant canoe song:
“En roulant ma boule roulant.”
As often as he found his body swinging to the song, so often did he
sternly check himself and resolutely set another air going in his head,
only to find himself in a short space swinging along again to the old
song to which he and his brother had so often made their canoe slip in
those great days that now seemed so far away.
“En roulant ma boule,”
sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He could hear Dick's clear
tenor from the bow. “Here, confound it! Quit it, I say!” he said aloud
savagely.
“En roulant ma boule roulant,”
in a clear strong voice came the old song from around the bend. The
doctor almost dropped his paddle into the stream.
“Heavens above!” he muttered. “What's that? Who's that?”
“Visa la noir, tua le blanc,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant,”
sang the voice. There was only one who could sing that verse just that
way. With two swift heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe into the
overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and pulled his canoe up
the bank after him. Down the river still came the song, and ever nearer.
“O fils du roi tu es mechant,
En roulant ma boule.”
The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and looked out. Close to the
bank came the canoe, the singer sitting in the stern, his hat off and
his face showing brown against the fair hair. How strong he looked and
how handsome! Barney remembered his own boyish pride in his brother's
good looks. Yes, he was handsome as ever, and yet he was different.
“He's older, that's it,” said the man in the bushes, breathing hard. No,
it was not that altogether. There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon
the face. All at once the song ceased abruptly. The paddle was laid down
and the canoe allowed to drift. The current carried her still nearer
the shore. Every line in the face could now be seen. The man peering out
through the bushes was conscious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in
that grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some sharp instrument
of grief. The change was not that of years, it was more. Not simply the
gravity of responsible manhood, it was that, and something else. This
was the change, the old careless gaiety was gone out of the face and in
its place sadness, almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, sad
face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with unseeing gaze upon the
flowing water. The canoe was now almost abreast the hiding place in the
bushes and still drifting. Suddenly the man in the canoe, lifting up his
face toward the sky, cried out, “I'll bring her back, please God, and
I'll find him, too!” The watcher drew back quickly. A stick snapped
under his hand. He threw himself face down and gripped his hands hard
into the moss as if to hold himself there. “A deer, I guess, but I must
get on,” he heard a voice say, then a flip of the paddle and, looking
out through the bushes, he saw the swaying figure of the man he most
longed and most dreaded to see of all men in the world fast disappearing
from his view. Twice he raised his hands to his lips to call after him,
but even as he did so a vision held his voice, the vision of a room in
a city far away, the girl he loved, and this man pressing hot kisses on
her face.
“No,” he said at length, grinding his foot hard into the moss, “let him
go.” But still with straining eyes he gazed after the swaying figure
till the bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he sank down on
the deep moss bank with the air of a man who has just passed through a
heavy fight.
The rest of the journey upstream was to him a weary drag. The brightness
had gone out of the light, the sweetness out of the air. A burning pain
filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old sore, which his
work for the sick and wounded had helped to heal over, had been torn
open afresh, and the first agony of it was upon him again. He arrived at
the upper camp late at night and weary. But, weary as he was, he toiled
on in his fight with the typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the
day, then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set off down the Big Horn,
resolved that ere a week had passed he would seek in some far land the
forgetting which here was impossible to him.
Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, but without awakening
any rhythmic song in his heart. It was a heavy grind to be got through
with as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the canoe failed to
quicken his heart a single beat. It was still early in the forenoon when
he reached the Long Rapid. It was a dangerous bit of water, but without
a moment's considering he stood upright in his canoe and, casting a
quick glance down the boiling slope, he made his choice of passage.
Then getting on his knees he braced them firmly against the sides of his
canoe and before he was well ready found himself in the smooth, steep
pitch at the crest of that seething incline of plunging water. Two
long swallowlike swoops, then a mad plunging through a succession of
buffeting, curling waves that slapped viciously at him as he dashed
through, a great heave or two over the humping billows at the foot, then
the swirl of the eddy caught him, and lifted him clear over into the
quiet water. One minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left
behind.
“Didn't take that quite right,” he grumbled. “Ought to have lifted her
sooner. Next time I'll get through dry. Next time?” he repeated. “God
knows if there'll ever be any next time of that water for me.” He
paddled round the eddy toward the shore, intending to dump the water
out of his canoe. “Hello! What in thunder is that?” Up against the
driftwood, where it had been carried by the eddy, a canoe was floating
bottom upwards. “God help us!” he groaned. “It's his canoe! My God!
My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd run these rapids. That's his
style. Oh, why didn't I call him? We could have done it together
safe enough!” He stood up in his canoe and searched eagerly among the
driftwood. “Dick! Dick!” he called over and over again in the wild cry
of a wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and examined it. “Ah,
that's where he hit the rocks, just at the foot. But he shouldn't drown
here,” he continued, “unless they hit him. Let's see, where would that
eddy take him?” For another anxious minute he stood observing the run
of the water. “If he could keep up three minutes,” he said, “he ought
to strike that bar.” With a few sweeps of his paddle he was on the sand
bar. “Ha!” he cried. A paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark.
“That never floated there.” He leaped out and drew up his canoe, then,
dropping on his knees, he examined the marks upon the bar. There on the
sand was stamped the print of an open hand. “Now, God be thanked!” he
cried, lifting his hands toward the sky, “he's reached this spot. He's
somewhere on shore here.” Like a dog on scent he followed up the marks
to the edge of the forest where the bank rose steeply over rough rocks.
Eagerly he clambered up, his eyes on the alert for any sign. He reached
the top. A quick glance he threw around him, then with a low cry he
rushed forward. There, stretched prone on the moss, a little pile of
brushwood near him, with his match case in his hand, lay his brother.
“Oh, Dick, boy!” he cried aloud, “not too late, surely!” He dropped
beside the still form, turned him gently over and laid his hand upon his
heart. “Too late! Too late!” he groaned. Like a madman he rushed out
of the woods, flung himself down the rocky bank and toward his canoe,
seized his bag and scrambled back again. Again, and more carefully, he
felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could detect a feeble flutter.
Hurriedly he seized his flask and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured
a few drops of the whiskey down the throat. But there was no attempt
to swallow. “We'll try it this way.” With swift fingers he filled his
syringe with the whiskey and injected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited
with his hand upon the feebly fluttering heart. “My God! it's coming, I
do believe!” he cried. “Now a little strychnine,” he whispered. “There,
that ought to help.”
Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his cooking kit and
blanket. In five minutes he had a fire going and his tea pail swung over
it with a little more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes more
he had half a cup of hot tea ready. By this time the heartbeat could be
detected every moment growing stronger. Into the tea he poured a little
of the stimulant. “If I can only get this down,” he muttered, chafing at
the limp hands. Once more he lifted the head, pried open the shut
jaws, and tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down. After repeated
attempts he succeeded. Then for the first time he observed that his
hands were covered with blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining
the back of it, detected a great jagged wound. “Looks bad, bad.” He felt
the bone carefully and shook his head. “Fracture, I fear.” Heating some
more water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half an hour more he spent
in his anxious struggle, with intense activity utilizing every precious
moment, when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to come
slowly back. “Now I must get him to the hospital.”
There were still five miles to paddle, but it was down stream and there
were no portages. With swift despatch he cut a large armful of balsam
boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed in his canoe, cutting
out the bow thwart, then lifting the wounded man and picking his steps
with great care, he carried him to the canoe and laid him upon the
balsam boughs on his right side. The moment the weight came upon that
side a groan burst from the pallid lips. “Something wrong there,”
muttered the doctor, turning him slightly over. “Ah, shoulder out. I'll
just settle this right now.” By dexterous manipulation the dislocation
was reduced, and at once the patient sank down upon the bed of boughs
and lay quite still. A little further stimulation brought back the heart
to a steadier beat. “Now, my boy,” he said to himself, as he took his
place kneeling in the stern of the canoe, “give her every ounce you
have.” For half an hour without pause, except twice to give his patient
stimulant, the sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept their rhythmic
swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe and in a minute more was
at the Landing.
“Duprez! Here, quick!” The doctor stood in the door of the stopping
place, wet as if he had come from the river, his voice raucous and his
face white.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Frenchman, “what de mattaire?”
The doctor swept a glance about the room. “Sick man,” he said briefly.
“I want this bed. Get your buckboard, quick.” He seized the bed and
carried it out before the eyes of the astonished Duprez.
Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, and by the time the
bed had been arranged on the buckboard he had his horse between the
shafts.
“Now then, Duprez, give me a hand,” said the doctor.
“Certainment. Bon Dieu! Dat's de bon preechere! Not dead, heh?”
“No,” said the doctor, glancing sharply into the haggard face while he
placed his fingers upon the pulse. “No. Now get on. Drive carefully, but
make time.”
In a few minutes they reached the road that led to the hospital, which
was well graded and smooth. Duprez sent along his pony at a lope and in
a short space of time they reached the door of the hospital, where they
were met by Orderly Ben Fallows on duty.
“Barney! By the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!” cried Ben. “What on
earth--”
But the doctor cut him short. “Ben, get the Matron, quick, and get a
bed ready with warm blankets and hot water bottles. Go, man! Don't gape
there!”
Still gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in through the hall and up the
stair as fast as his wooden leg would allow him. He reached the office
door. “Miss Margaret,” he gasped, “Barney's at the door with a sick man.
Wants a bed ready. We 'aven't got one--and--”
The look upon the matron's face interrupted the flow of his words.
“Barney?” she said, rising slowly to her feet. “Barney?” she said again,
her hand clutching the desk and holding hard. “What do you mean, Ben?”
The words came slowly.
“He wants a bed for a sick man and we 'aven't--”
Margaret took a step toward him. “Ben,” she said, in breathless haste,
“get my room ready. But first tell Nurse Crane to come to me quick. Go,
Ben.”
The orderly hurried away, leaving her alone. With trembling hands she
shut the door, turned toward her desk, and there stood, both hands
pressed hard to her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous
tides that surged through her heart and thundered in her ears. “Barney!
Barney!” she whispered. “Oh, Barney, at last!” The blue eyes were wide
open and all aglow with the tender light of her great love. “Barney,”
she said over and over, “my love, my love, my--ah, not mine--” A sob
caught her voice. Over her desk hung a copy of Hoffman's great picture,
the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. She went close to the picture. “O
Christ!” she cried brokenly, “I, too! Help me!” A knock came to the
door, Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly turned toward her desk
again.
“Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient,” said the nurse.
“Dr. Bailey?” echoed Margaret, not daring to look up, her trembling
hands fluttering among the papers on the desk. “Go to him, Nurse, and
get what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in a moment.”
Once more she was alone. Again she stood before the picture of the
Christ, the words of the great submission ringing through the chambers
of her soul. “Not my will but Thine be done.” She pressed nearer the
picture, gazing into that strong, patient, suffering face through the
rain of welcome tears. “O Christ!” she whispered, “dear blessed Christ!
I understand--now. Help me! Help me!” Then, after a pause, “Not my will!
Not my will!”
The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lavatory that stood in
the corner of her office, bathed her eyes, smoothed away the signs of
struggle from her face, and went forth serene to her duty and her cross.
In the hall she met Barney. With a quick, light step she was at his
side, both hands stretched out. “Barney!” “Margaret!” was all they said.
For a moment or two Barney stood holding her hands, gazing without a
word into the sweet face, so pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong.
Twice he essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat. Turning
abruptly away he pointed to the figure under the grey blanket on the
camp bed.
“I've brought--you--Dick,” at last he said hoarsely.
“Dick! Hurt? Not--” She halted before the dreaded word.
“No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope--”
“The room is ready,” said Nurse Crane.
At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way to the immediate
demands of their common duty. They had work to do, and they had trained
themselves to obey without thought of self that Divine call to serve
the suffering. Together they toiled at their work, Margaret noting with
delighted wonder the quick fingers and the finished skill that
cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in the head and made thorough
examination for other injury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the
efficiency of the silent, steady helper at his side whose quick eye and
hand anticipated his every want. At length their work was done and they
stood looking down upon the haggard face.
“He is resting now,” said Barney, in a low voice. “The fracture is not
serious, I think.”
“Poor Dick,” said Margaret, passing her hand over his brow.
At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened his eyes. Barney quickly
stepped back out of sight. For a moment or two the eyes wandered about
the room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, inquiring gaze.
“What is it, Dick, dear?” said Margaret, bending over him.
For answer his hand began to move feebly toward his breast as if seeking
something.
“I know. The letter, Dick?” A look of intelligence lighted the eye.
“That's all right, Dick. I shall get it to Barney. Barney is here, you
know.”
A hand grasped her arm. “Hush!” said Barney in stern command. “Say
nothing about me.” But she heeded him not. For a moment longer the sick
man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of content overspread the
drawn features, then the look of intelligence faded and the eyes closed
wearily.
“Come,” said Barney, moving toward the door, “he is better quiet.”
Leaving the nurse in charge, they went together toward the office.
“Where did you find him?” asked Margaret as she gave Barney a seat. Then
Barney told her the story of how he had chanced upon the canoe and had
discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods.
“It was God's leading, Barney,” said Margaret gently, when the story
was done; but to this he made no reply. “Is there serious danger, do you
think?” she inquired in an anxious voice.
“He will recover,” replied Barney. “All he requires is careful nursing,
and that you can give him. I shall wait till to-morrow.”
“To-morrow? And then?”
“I am leaving this country next week.”
“Leaving the country? And why?”
“My work here is done.”