Chapter 21

“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.”

But “Mexico” only spat out his contempt for anything that “Peachy” could do, and went calmly on his way, “keeping the boys in line.” But he began to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to “line up” at the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the “same old party.” There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all “Mexico” represented. They “lined up” still, but beyond this they did not go.

The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the polls. “It's that cursed doctor!” he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member for the district. “He's been working a deep game. Of course, his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm afraid of him.”

“Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing,” said McKenty.

“How?”

“Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without grease.” McKenty spoke out of considerable experience.

“That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys all round.”

“I've heard about it,” said McKenty. “I guess the Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too.”

“That's all right,” replied the editor. “Might do some good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says.”

McKenty thought deeply for some moments. “Well,” he said, finally, “something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?”

“'Mexico'!” exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. “There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right.”

“Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of loosening up people.”

“But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's some religion in it.”

McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.

“I tell you I mean it,” said the editor, testily. “The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair curl.” And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting in question.

“Well,” said McKenty, “I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. You've simply got to get after him.”

This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived “Mexico” sauntering down the other side of the street.

“There he is now,” he cried, going toward the door. “Hi! 'Mexico'!” he called, and “Mexico” came slouching across. “Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?” said the editor. “Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!”

“Mornin',” grunted “Mexico,” nodding first to the editor and then to McKenty.

“How is things, 'Mexico'?” said the editor, in his most ingratiating manner.

“How?”

“How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know.”

“Comin' on soon?”

“Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be ready, though.”

“Can't be too soon,” said “Mexico.”

“How is that?”

“Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion,” with a glance at the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. “People beginnin' to go to meetin' in this country.”