'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? After your
long silence you might--” She raised her head and looked into his eyes
with her old saucy smile.
“There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold you
like this? But you must not talk too much.”
“Tell me something about yourself,” she cried. “What? Where? How? Why?
No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest.”
“It is hardly worth while, Iola,” he replied, “and it would take a long
time.”
“Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. All
the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven than this?
Tell me about Margaret and--yes--and Dick,” she shyly added. “Are they
well and happy?”
“Now, darling,” said Barney, stroking her hair; “just rest there and
I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust yourself.”
“Go on then, Barney,” she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss,
nestling down again. “Oh, lovely rest!”
Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days
together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy
that had come to them all. “And it was your letter that did it all,
Iola,” he said.
“No,” she replied gently, “it was our Father's goodness. I see things
so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is an angel from
Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!”
“I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for.”
A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady
Ruthven, with Jack in the background, appeared.
“Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. Boyle
would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?”
“No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night to
dinner.”
“Is it wise, do you think?” said Lady Ruthven gravely. “You must save
your strength now, you know.”
“Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night,” she pleaded. “I'm not going to
be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. I am going to
eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them I can go
down. Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you like. I am
going, Jack,” she continued with something of her old imperious air.
Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers
upon her wrist. She was growing excited. “Well, I think she might go
down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best.”
“If she is good she might,” said Jack doubtfully. “But she must promise
to be quiet.”
“Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good--as good as I can.”
With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content themselves.
At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her
wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked
himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been mistaken.
As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever
she was! How quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind,
glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds
about her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with
imagination's divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of
a change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her
conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it
was not these that made the change. There was a new quality of soul in
her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite
aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth,
earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing about her.
To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in
Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in a
new and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet
it filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing
its claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the
heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in
spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that,
before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale
of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western
Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations,
the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary
life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the
beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip
and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held
the gaze of the whole company.
“Oh, what splendid work!” she cried. “How good to be a man! But it's
better,” she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy
laugh, “to be a woman.”
It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's
attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close.
“Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?” cried Iola, as her hostess made a move
to rise. “What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you are not going
to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you know, and I
believe I feel like singing to-night.”
“My dear, my dear,” said Lady Ruthven, “do you think you should exert
yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does your doctor
say?”
“Barney?”
“Barney, indeed!” echoed Jack indignantly. “Oh, the ingratitude of the
female heart! Here for all these weeks I have--”
“Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough to
banish me.”
“An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an
atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting
conversation,” said Jack gravely.
“And music, Doctor?” inquired Iola, with mock humility.
“Well, I'll sing a little myself,” replied Jack.
“Oh, my dear Iola,” cried Miss Ruthven, “hasten to bed, I beg of
you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear
Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the
Highlands last year,” she continued with mischievous gravity.
“Ah,” said Jack, much flattered, “I don't quite--”
“Oh, the horn, you know.”
“Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing.”
“Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the--ah--experience.”
“How do you feel now, Iola?” said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon
her pulse.
“Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen.” And she ran up her chromatics
in a voice rich and strong and clear.
“Well, this is most wonderful!” exclaimed Jack. “Her pulse is strong,
even, steady. Her respiration is normal.”
“I told you!” cried Iola triumphantly. “Now you will let me sing--not
a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie.
Barney's mother used to sing it.”
“My dear Iola,” entreated Lady Ruthven, “do you think you should
venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?”
“Don't ask me,” said Barney. “I should forbid it were it anyone else.”
“But it isn't anyone else,” persisted Iola, “and my doctor says yes.
I'll only hum, Jack.”
“Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and
such frills.”
She took her guitar. “I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother,” she
said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect
reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang
the Highland lament, “O'er the Moor.”
“O'er the moor I wander lonely,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
Where are all the joys I cherished?
With my darling they have perished,
And they will return no more.
“I loved thee first, I loved thee only,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
I loved thee from the day I met thee.
What care I though all forget thee?
I will love thee evermore.”
And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, “You
never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you.” And in a low,
soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little
song that described so fittingly her own experience, “My Heart's Rest.”
“I had wandered far, and the wind was cold,
And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old,
When the Master came to close His fold
And saw that one had strayed.
“Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill,
And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till
The Master's voice searched vale and hill:
I heard and fled afraid.
“Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on.
And the stars went out, and the day was gone,
Then the Master found, laid me upon
His bosom, unafraid.”
A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out
of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette
and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it
passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate.
“I feel as if I could sleep now,” said Iola. “Barney, carry me.” Like a
tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. “Good-night, dear
friends, all,” she said. “What a happy evening it has been.” Then, with
a little cry, “Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping,” she locked her arms
tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. “Goodnight, Barney, my
love, my own love,” she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. “How
good you are to me--how good to have you. Now kiss me--quick--don't
wait--again, dear--good-night.” Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her
head sank upon his breast.
“Iola!” he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down
into her face. He carried her to the open window. “Oh, my God! My God!
She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!”
But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart,
and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal
ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested
upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart
was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay
as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes
full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned
and left him alone with his dead.
For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the
midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had
not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not
snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near.
At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and
lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot
where her dead lay.
“We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here,” she
said. “You know we love her dearly.”
“It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven,” Barney replied,
his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. “She loved
this valley, and it was here she first found rest.”
“Yes, she loves this valley,” replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept
Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. “And here she found peace
and perfect love again.”
A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London
to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride
in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with
him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she
had made her London debut in “Lohengrin.” There in the sunny valley they
laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their
tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears,
only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace.
XXIII
THE LAST CALL
Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his
discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various
forms he felt that he stood almost alone.
At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed
him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was
familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches
to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion
was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the
Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of
development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other
upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly
on that ground.
“Well,” said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, “how did the
meeting go last night?”
“I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all.”
“Yes,” replied Daggett, “your men are all right in their opinions, but
they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have
told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't
stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with
sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your
nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes
to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put
together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics.
Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their
husbands' business.”
Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was
not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's
review of the situation.
“There is something in what you say,” he conceded, “but--”
“Oh, come now,” interrupted Daggett, “you know better than that. This
town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey,
he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey
and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable
McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own
business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor
Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever
since. The safe thing is to do nothing.”
“You seem to know all about it,” said Dick. “What's the good of your
paper? Why don't you get after these men?”
“My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite
true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of
public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being
an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space.
Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations
that determine newspaper policy.”
Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. “It's true. It's terribly true,”
he said. “The people don't want anything better than they have. The
saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time.
But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an
opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump
into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand
this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take
a hand.”
Daggett smiled a superior smile. “Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The
Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with
a small g.”
“I tell you, Daggett,” said Dick hotly, “The Pioneer's day is past. I
see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you,
too, unless you change, out of existence.”
“Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it
arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but
the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?”
“I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick
and running this library and clubroom business.”
“Yes,” replied Daggett thoughtfully, “I hear of him often. The railroad
men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this
constituency?”
Dick laughed at him. “Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy
him. Oh, I know the game.”
Daggett was silenced for some moments.
“Hello!” said Daggett, looking out of the window, “here is our coming
Member.” He opened the door. “Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the
Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle--Mr.
Hull, the coming Member for this constituency.”
“I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent,”
said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of
the political parties or their representatives. “I must get along. But,
Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell
business.” With this he closed the door.
“Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon,” said Hull, “but a little unpractical,
eh?”
“Yes,” agreed Daggett, “he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think
he is on the right track.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this
country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks
that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can
keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over
night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see
them, too.”
“Signs?” inquired Hull.
“Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held
responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,'
too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's
brother is taking a hand, I believe.”
“The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not well.”
“You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't
forget it.”
Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable
wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for
the tenderfoot.
“All right,” said Daggett, “you may sniff. I've watched him and I've
discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker
player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit
poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer.”
“What's his game?”
“Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here
at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there.
Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen
to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing
clubrooms.”
“By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico'
think of it?”
“Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's
a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him.
He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'”
“What about 'Mexico'?”
“Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit,
divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting
queer.”
Hull was at once on the alert. “That's interesting. You are sure of your
facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign
is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to
be considered.”
But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political
machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the
saloon and “red light” influence to be easily emancipated. The business
interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent
upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had
the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for
reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the
railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic
lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the
saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore,
unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to
cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr.
Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an
endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective
were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an
unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of
the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was
too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man
“who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or
blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker.”
“He stays while I stay,” was Fahey's last word in reply to an
influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine.
Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack.
“Mexico” and the organization of which he was the head were instructed
to “run him out.” Receiving his orders, “Mexico” called his agents
together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately
developed, one party led by “Peachy” being strongly in favour of
obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly
opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. “Mexico” sat silent, watchful,
impassive. At length, “Peachy,” in full swing of an impassioned and
sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was
called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief.
“Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do
something.”
A grim laugh at “Peachy's” expense went round the company.
“Do somethin'?” snarled “Peachy,” stung to fury, “I'll do somethin' one
of these days. I've stood you all I want.”
“Peachy's” oaths were crude in comparison with “Mexico's,” but his fury
lent them force. “Mexico” turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him.
“Do something? Meaning?”
“Never mind,” growled “Peachy.”
“Git!” “Mexico” pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of
doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that
meeting, but banishment from the company of which “Mexico” was head, and
that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. “Peachy”
was startled.
“You needn't be so blanked swift,” he growled apologetically. “I didn't
mean for to--”
“You git!” repeated “Mexico,” turning the pointing finger from the door
to the face of the startled wretch.
With a fierce oath “Peachy” reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw.
“Mexico” moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except
that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat
over the piercing black eyes.
“You dog!” he ground out through his clenched teeth, “you know you can't
bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me
up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!”
The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while
“Mexico's” hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly “Peachy” rose
and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage
beast. At the door he paused.
“'Mexico,'” he said, “is this the last between you and me?”
“Mexico” kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man
backing out of the door.
“Git out, you cur!” he said, with contemptuous deliberation.
“Take that, then.”
Like a flash, “Mexico” threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as
one. A slight smile curled “Mexico's” lip.
“Got him that time, I reckon.”
“Hurt, 'Mexico'?” anxiously inquired his friends.
“Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight.” The bartender and some
others came running in with anxious faces. “Never mind, boys,” said
“Mexico.” “'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him
some.”
“Say, there's blood here!” said the bartender. “He's been bleedin' bad.”
“Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business.”
The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired.
“Now, boys, listen to me,” said “Mexico” impressively, leaning over the
table. “Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine,
and the man that touches him touches me.” There was an ominous silence.
“Just as you say, 'Mexico,'” said one of the men, “but I see the finish
of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you
know he ain't the kind that quits.”
“You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of
this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that.
But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay.”
As the meeting broke up, “Mexico's” friends warned him against “Peachy.”
“Pshaw! 'Peachy'!” said “Mexico” contemptuously. “He couldn't hold his
gun steady at me.”
“He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round.”