“You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself,”
said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs.
“Let me help you, Barney,” she said, putting her arms about him. “You're
the one who will not think of yourself.”
“We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson,
after all.”
The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble
and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded
immediate operation.
“We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?” Barney asked, a
little anxiously. “An hour can't make much difference now, you know.”
“Why, certainly we shall wait,” cried the doctor.
Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent
message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious
operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of
emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand.
The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of
strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his
brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal
effects.
“Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right,” he said, with
cheerful courage.
“Of course,” answered Dick, quickly.
“But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly.”
“Quite right, Barney,” said Dick again, his voice steady and even.
The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for
a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then
the doctor came to the door.
“Are you ready, Doctor?” said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful voice.
“Yes, we're all ready.”
“A minute, Doctor, please,” said Barney.
The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone.
“Just a little, word, Dick.”
“Oh, Barney,” cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, “I
don't think I can.”
“Never mind then, old chap,” replied Barney, putting out his hand to
him.
“Wait a minute, Barney. I will,” said Dick, instantly regaining hold
of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in
both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his
prayer, closing with the words, “And O, my Father, keep my brother
safe.” “And mine,” added Barney. “Amen.”
“Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready.” And with a smile he met the
doctor at the door.
In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse
told Dick all he dared not ask.
“How long before he will be quite conscious again?” he inquired.
“It will be an hour at least,” replied the surgeon, kindly, “before he
can talk much.”
Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door
upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready
to help his brother if he should chance to need help for “the last
weariness, the final strife.”
“We must help him,” he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting
till he should waken. “We must forget our side just now.”
But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night
they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as
it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with
strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium,
but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by
Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.
“This is not too bad, Dick,” he said. “How much worse it might have
been. He brought us two together again--us three,” he corrected,
glancing at Margaret.
“Yes, Barney,” replied Dick, “nothing matters much beside that.”
“And then,” continued his brother, “He let me do a little work for the
boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him,
Dick. He is my friend.”
“Mine, too, Barney,” said Dick; “mine forever.”
“Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a doctor, I
mean!”
“We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear.”
“What a chance!” he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep.
Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was
at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their
unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a
rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains,
letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned
his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper.
Bending over him his brother caught the words, “Night no more.” The
great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the
mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest
upon his brother's face. “It is near now, Dick--I think--and it's not
hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think
mother--would like--to have me near.”
“Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother.” Dick's voice was
steady and clear.
“Margaret,” said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An
odd little smile played over his face. “I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but
I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me.”
She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb
courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, “Barney, my love! my
love!”
Again he smiled up at her. “Margaret,” he said, “take care--of Dick--for
me.”
“Yes, Barney, I will.” The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice
carried full conviction to his mind.
“I know you will,” he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he
lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly
he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. “Dick, my boy,”
he cried, in a clear, strong voice, “my brother--my brother.” He lifted
up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath,
then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited,
tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.
“He's gone, Margaret!” cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise,
lifting up a white appealing face to her. “He's gone! Oh! he has left
us!”
She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. “We have only each
other now, Dick,” she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the
strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found
courage to turn again and live.
Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through
the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal.
It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a
king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken.
It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a
longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street
behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps
and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large
wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid
it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said,
hesitatingly, “The men would like to see him again, if you think best.”
“Tell them to come,” replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the
face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most
part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked
upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph
subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat comforted.
The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss
of their friend, but to him the best had come.
By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. “Ochone!” he sobbed,
“when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at
him I feel no pain at all.” It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For
themselves they must weep, but not for him.
At length, all had gone. “Could you say a word to them, Dick?” said
Margaret. “I think he would like it.” And Dick, drawing a deep breath,
went forth to them. His words were few and simple. “We must not speak
words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you
as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know you will not
forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me
to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved
and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he
gave himself to you.”
As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh
dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd
quickly made way. It was “Mexico,” pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon
his friends. He came up to Dick. “May I see him?” he asked humbly.
“Come in,” said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to
the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by
this time that it was to save “Mexico” the doctor had given his life.
With heads bared they waited till “Mexico” came out again. As he
appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm supporting him, the
men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce,
gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a moment “Mexico” stood
leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew himself erect.
“Boys,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly audible
over the crowd, “he died because he wouldn't go back on his friend. He
gave me this.” He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and
carried it reverently to his lips. “I'm a-goin' to follow that trail.”
Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and
then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps,
even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but
remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of
that strong love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for
His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend.
XXIV
FOR LOVE'S SAKE
Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had
been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full pride of
their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of
old, the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake
fences, sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the rails peeped the
clover, red and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the
dogwood, while the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green
clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The singing voices of summer
were all a-throb, filling the air with great antiphonies of praise, till
this good June day was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life.
At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. “I'll
wait here,” she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up the chaste
beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his fierce
rays. “I must get into the shade,” she said, climbed the fence, and, on
the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself down in the shade of
the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to her. How well
she remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would
never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that only love
knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem.
A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work,
remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help
and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, “Take
care of Dick for me,” had moved her to offer with shy courage to go back
with him. But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of any such
persuasion.
“You must not come to me for pity,” he said, bidding her good-bye.
But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and
wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's heroic
service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had
returned. To-day he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah,
there he was now. On the crest of the hill he would turn and look toward
her. There, he had turned.
As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, “Margaret!”
and came running toward her.
She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the
throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him.
Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there
waiting. “Margaret!” he cried again, with a note of anxiety in his voice
that trembled under the intensity of his feeling.
But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her.
“Oh, I am so glad,” she whispered to herself. Dick came toward her
slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from
her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the
blue eyes lifted so bravely to his.
“For pity's sake, Margaret?” he asked, the note of anxiety deepening in
his voice.
For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. “Yes,”
she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, “and for
love's sake, too.”
And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full
from earth to heaven above.