Chapter 16

“I quite agree with you,” said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by the hand. “The measures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll send him out.”

“Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his force.”

“Well, well, we'll see, we'll see.”

“Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be busy just now and will excuse us.”

The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his mind.

“These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance--every one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring you will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a magnificent site five hundred yards away,” pointing to a little plateau further up the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. “Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which the men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! they might at least have kept the vermin out.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Fahey, “every camp has to have a few of them fellows. Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them out.”

“Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay,” continued the doctor. “You would keep your men in good condition, in good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay with you. Besides, it would prevent scandal.”

“Scandal?” The General Manager looked up sharply.

“Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all over the East in a few weeks.”

The General Manager was thinking hard. “Look here, young man,” he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, “do you drink?”

“No.”

“Do you gamble?”

“When I've nothing to do.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Fahey, “a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I don't care.”

For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. “I didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can look at it.”

Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it again with more care.

“You know Sir William?”

“Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London.”

“This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood very high in the profession in London.”

“I had a fairly good position,” said Dr. Bailey.

“May I ask why you left?”

Dr. Bailey hesitated. “I grew tired of the life--and, besides--well--I wanted to get away from things and people.”

“Pardon my asking,” said Fahey hastily. “It was none of my business. But, Doctor--” here he glanced at the letter again, “Bailey, you say your name is?”

“They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Fahey quickly, “Bailey let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your standing for less.”

“Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much. It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything.”

“By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine,” said Fahey, with a laugh, “so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we will get it for you.”

On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, “I believe it was a put-up job with Tommy.”

“It's a blank lie!” roared Craigin. “I have it from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to his business?”

“Craigin,” he said quietly, “let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better.”

Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment.

“There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet.” As he said this he motioned them out of the room. As he was leaving, Craigin called him back.

“I want to see Maclennan,” he said gruffly.

“Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin,” replied the doctor, in soothing tones.

“I want to see him now.”

The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back.

“Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against me.”

“All right, Craigin,” said Maclennan, “I'm glad to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge.”

Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the bedside. “Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend.”

That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been for some days.

XIX

THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK

Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. “We want as matron,” Dick had written, “a strong, sane woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she is the better.”

“Cheery in manner and brave in heart?” Mrs. Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. “The very one! She is that and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. Dick.” Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. “No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but--” Not even to herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment.

With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever “Barney's mother.”

“It would be a very fine work,” said Mrs. Boyle, “but oh, lassie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!”

“Why, Dick is not very far away.”

“Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen to you, and no one to care for you?”

The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face.

“What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?” said Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. “There's one of the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an' Barney an' Dick--”

“Och! Ben lad,” said Mrs. Boyle, “Margaret will be hearing that story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?”

“Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?”

“Aye, that she does,” remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, “Not I! My business is to look after other people.”

But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do better than take Ben along to “look after her,” as he put it. Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the clumsiness of the other leg in comparison.

“W'en it comes to legs,” Ben would say, “this 'ere's the machine fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below.”

As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces.

It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons associated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those down the line.

It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings.

“It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they do.”

“I guess they're all right fer simple cases,” agreed Ben, “but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!”

“Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!”

“Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?” inquired Ben, with fine scorn.

“Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him alive, an' so I will.”

“Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate,” said Ben, with studied, politeness, “that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done,” displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. “But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!”

“Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the railway?”

“I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general,” replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, “but I'm talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle.” Ben's attention to the finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. “An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire.”

“Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?”

“Well,” said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, “I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere which--”

“Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their hats?”

“As I was sayin',” continued Ben, “there's two churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you”--here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's face--“I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere hinstitution!” And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was impossible to him.

“An' what's more,” continued Ben, “this 'ere hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!” And still Tommy remained silent.

“An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same.”

“Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?”

“Yes, that's w'at I 'ear,” conceded Ben. “But e'll soak 'em good at poker.”

“Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid lights'--”

“'Red lights'?” interrupted Ben. “Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'.”

“Who did, thin?”

“Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man.”

“Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape.”

“Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon.” Ben's h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. “An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!”

“Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?”

“No,” said Ben, “I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't.”

“Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane.”

“My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!” cried Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.

“Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a batin'!”

“I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital,” replied Ben scornfully, “but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher--”

“Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's worth--”

“Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!” Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. “I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution--”

“Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand--Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!”

“Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well to-day,” cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.

“Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?” said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. “Sure, it's better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face.”

“Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to blarney.”

“Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same.”

“Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing my annual report.”

“Report!” cried Ben. “A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh.”

And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.

The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress.

For some moments Dick stood gazing. “Of all views I see, this is the best,” he said. “Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it always brings me rest and comfort.”

“Rest and comfort?” echoed Margaret, coming to his side. “Yes, I understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long.”

“I understand,” replied Dick, slowly. “Barney used to say the same about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill.”

Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb.

“Come, this won't do,” said Margaret, almost sharply.

“No, it won't do,” replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's heart.

“I am struggling with my report,” said Margaret in a business-like tone. “What shall I say? How shall I begin?”

“Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook.”

“Hush, Dick,” said Margaret softly. “You are forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital cannot cure.”

“Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers.”

“Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?”

“Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--”

“What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!”

“Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals, and all that sort of thing.”

“So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile.

“Got what?”

“Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.”