Chapter 23

“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.