Chapter 4

A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of hay or the cutting of fall wheat equally impossible, filled the school with the parents and friends of the children. The minister and the trustees were dutifully present. Of the mill people Dick and his mother appeared, Dick because his mother insisted that a student should show interest in the school, his mother because Dick refused to go a step without her. Barney came later, not because of his interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to himself, conscious of the need of a reason, because there was nothing much else to do. The presence of “Maine” Jabe might be taken as the high water mark of the interest aroused throughout the section in the new teacher and her methods.

The closing exercises were, with a single exception, a brilliantly flawless exhibition. That exception appeared in the Euclid of the entrance class. The mathematics were introduced early in the day. The arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with problems of barter and sale of the various products of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. The algebra class was equally successful. In the Euclid class it seemed as if the hitherto unbroken success would come to an unhappy end in the bewilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from whom the minister had asked a demonstration of the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, for in placing the figure upon the board with the letters designating the isosceles triangle he made the fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right hand side of the base instead of at its proper place at the left, as in the book. The result was that the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring the figure upon the board and depending entirely upon her memory, soon plunged both the minister and herself into confusion hopeless and complete. But the quick eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, and, going to the board, she erased the unfamiliar figure, saying, as she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, “Wait, Phoebe. You are quite confused, I know. We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over.” She placed the figure upon the board with the designating letters arranged as in the book. “Now, take your time,” she said with deliberate emphasis. “Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle.” And thus, with her feet set firmly upon the familiar path, little Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and dexterity that elicited the wonder and admiration of all present, the minister, good man, included. Upon Barney, however, who understood perfectly what had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleasant impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the mathematical exercises as a whole awakened within him a feeling of pain which he could not explain.

When the reading classes were under review the school passed from the atmosphere of the superficial to that of the real. Never had such reading been heard in that or in any other common school. The familiar sing-song monotony of the reading lesson was gone and in its place a real and vivid picturing of the scenes described or enacted. It was all simple, natural, and effective.

The exercises attained an easy climax with the recitations and singing which closed the day. Here the artistic gifts of the teacher had full scope. There was an absence of all nervous dread in the performers. By some marvellous power she caught hold and absorbed their attention so that for her chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the singing, which terminated the proceedings, the triumph of the day was complete. A single hymn, two or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto unheard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus; and, at the last, “for the children and the mothers,” the teacher said, one soft lullaby in which for the first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in all their lives they had never listened to. It was a fine sense of artistic values that cut out the speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary way. The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon her as minister, trustees, parents, and all crowded about her, offering congratulations. Her air of shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve served in no small degree to heighten the whole effect of the day.

The mill people walked home with the minister and Margaret.

“Isn't she a wonder?” cried Dick. “What has she done to those little blocks? Why, they don't seem the same children!”

“Yes, yes,” replied the minister, “it is quite surprising, indeed.”

“In their mathematics, though, there was some thin skating there for a while,” continued Dick.

“Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But she recovered herself cleverly.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dick, with a slight laugh. “That was a clever bit of work on the part of the teacher.”

“Oh, shut up, Dick!” said Barney sharply.

“Oh, well,” replied Dick, “no one expects mathematics from a girl, anyway.”

“Do you hear the conceit of him?” said his mother indignantly, “and Margaret there can show all of you the way.”

“Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret is a wonder, too. But whatever you say, the reciting and singing were good. Even little Link Young was quite dramatic. They say that 'Maine' Jabe for the first time in his life is quite reckless in regard to the school rates.”

“We will just wait a year,” said his mother. “It is a new broom that sweeps clean.”

“Now, mother, you are too hard to please.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, grimly closing her lips.

As they reached the manse gate the minister, who had evidently been pondering Dick's words, said, “Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a delightful afternoon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. And after all it is a great matter that the children should be taught to read and recite well. And it was no wonder that the poor thing would seek to make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret will need to take Dugald over his mathematics, I fear, before he goes up to the entrance.” At which remark the painful feeling which the reciting and singing had caused Barney to forget for the time, returned with even greater poignancy.

But in all the section there was only one opinion, and that was that, at all costs, the teacher's services must be retained. For once, the trustees realised that no longer would they depend for popularity upon the sole qualification of their ability to keep down the school rate. It was, perhaps, not the most diplomatic moment they chose for the securing of the teacher's services for another year. It might be that they were moved to immediate action by the apparent willingness on her part to leave the matter of re-engagement an open question. On all hands, however, they were applauded as having done a good stroke of business when, there and then, they closed their bargain with the teacher, although at a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been paid in the section before.

VI

THE YOUNG DOCTOR

Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused it.

“What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his only son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But--” Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. “Confound these foggy nights! I'll put you through.”

“I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll stay at home.”

“What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy.

“I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?”

“No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded fool and work up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the last year, when he must attend college.”

“I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws.

The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.” The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched.

“Oh, you can!” he cried impulsively, “and I'll be awfully thankful. You can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you have time.” His face went suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a favour.

The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in him, and for the first time treated him as an equal. He explained in detail the course of study, making much of the difficulties in the way. When he had done he waved his hand toward his library.

“Now, there are my books,” he cried; “use them and ask me what you will. It will brush me up. And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You've got the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon! That's the only thing worth while. The physician can't see further below the skin than anyone else. He guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!” Here the doctor rose and began to pace the floor. “There's no guess in the knife point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the postmortem”--here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy--“at the post-mortem the knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery was made too late.” These were the days before appendicitis became fashionable. “Now, listen to me,” continued the doctor, even more impressively, “I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long, the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these,” and he held up a coarse, heavy hand; “I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the nerve--plenty of men have that--but you've also got the fingers, which few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great surgeon! But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!” he cried, waving his great hands. “And remember!”--here his voice took a solemn tone--“let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind, disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time at your command.” At these words the boy's face, which had caught the light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell.

“Well, what now?” cried the doctor, reading his face like a book.

“I have no right to take your books or your time.”

The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced him, almost as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly regarding each other, then the doctor's old face relaxed, his eyes softened. He put his big hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Now, by the Lord that made you and me!” he said, “we were meant for a team, and a team we'll make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay.” The boy's face brightened.

“How?” he cried eagerly.

“We'll change work.” The doctor's old eyes began to twinkle. “I want fall ploughing done and my cordwood hauled.”

“I'll do it!” cried Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded his face. At last he saw his path.

“Here,” said the doctor, taking down a book, “here's your Gray.” And turning the leaves, “Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read this. And here's the treatment,” pulling down another book and turning to a page, “Read that. I'll make Ben your first patient. There's no money in it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that Buffalo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go for your first examination next spring.”

“Next spring!” cried Barney, aghast, “not for three years.”

“Three years!” snorted the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! You can do this first examination by next spring.”

“Yes. I could do it,” said Barney slowly.

The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of jaw on the boy's face.

“But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's college.”

“Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?”

The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light fell over it, filling in its cracks and canyons.

“Because--well, because Dick must go through. Dick's clever. He's awful clever.” Pride mingled with the tenderness in look and tone. “Mother wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after a pause, “I do, too.”

The old doctor turned from him, stood looking out of the window a few minutes, and then came back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. “I understand, boy,” he said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make Dick a minister if you want, but meantime we'll grind the surgeon's knife.”

The boy went home to his mother in high exultation.

“The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. “He is going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than I can tell.”

“Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. How many has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?”

“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.”

“Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow the figure to remain at that.”

“Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking with the confidence of intimate knowledge.

“Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a question whether it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive tree.”

“Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.”

“Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows!”

“Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't talk foolishly.”

“But you said four, mother.”

“Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney.

“Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let us hope she won't get the habit.”

“But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously, “what's to be done?”

“Indeed, I can't tell,” said his mother.

“Listen to me,” cried Dick, “I've got an inspiration. I'll undertake the 'good cheer.' I'll impress the young ladies into this worthy service. Light conversation and song. And you can put up the food, mother, can't you?”

“We will see,” said the mother quietly; “we will do our best.”

“In that case the 'food department' is secure,” said Dick; “already I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence.”

It was characteristic of Barney that within a few days he had all three departments in full operation. With great tact he succeeded in making Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash the walls in Ben's little room, urging the doctor's orders and emphasizing the danger of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning to obtain in popular imagination.

“Microbes? What's them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously.

“Very small insects.”

“Insects? Is it bugs you mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's bugs. John sez to me, sez 'e, 'What's the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?' But I sez to 'im, sez I, 'No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought up with bugs, an' bugs I cawn't an' won't 'ave.'”

It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the presence of microbes was no impeachment of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that these mysterious creatures were to be found in the very highest circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his “good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows' susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that in surgical cases such as Ben's certain articles of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best results.

Not the least successful part of the treatment prescribed was that furnished by the “good cheer” department. This was left entirely in Dick's charge, and he threw himself into its direction with the enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola with her guitar was undoubtedly his mainstay. But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could persuade Margaret, too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had other duties, and, besides, she had associated herself more particularly with Mrs. Boyle in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat unappetising though entirely substantial meals with delicacies more suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, insisted that with all that Iola and himself in the “good cheer” department and Barney in what he called the “scavenging” department could achieve, there was still need of Margaret's presence and Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest time came upon them, he made a practice of calling at the manse, and, relieving her of the duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her off to the Fallows household, whither Barney and Iola had preceded them.

Altogether the “young doctor,” as Ben called him, had reason to be proud of the success he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation healed over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in a few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. He was never weary in his praises of the “young doctor.” It was the “young doctor” who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the intolerable pain which followed the first dressing. It was the “young doctor” who had changed the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, bringing ease where there had been chafing pain.

“Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want,” was Ben's final conclusion, “but fer me, the young doctor, sez I.”

VII

THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT

The “good cheer” department, while ostensibly for Ben's benefit, wrought profit and cheer for others besides. What Dick got of it no one but himself knew, for that young man, with all his apparent frankness, kept the veil over his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his new work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new ambitions, the “good cheer” department was chiefly valued as an important factor in Ben's progress. To Iola it brought what to her was the breath of life, admiration, gratitude, affection. But Margaret perhaps more than any, not even excepting Ben himself, gathered from this department what might be called its by-products. The daily monotony of her household duties bore hard upon her young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, could not be quite abandoned without a sense of pain and loss. The break offered by the work of the department in the monotony of her life, the companionship of its members, and, as much as anything, the irresistible appeal to her keen sense of humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irresistibly cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than compensated for the extra effort which her membership in the department rendered necessary.

It was the evening following that of the school closing that Dick with Margaret and Iola were making one of their customary calls at the Fallows cottage. It would be for Iola the last visit for some weeks, as she was about to depart to town for her holidays.

“I have come to say good-bye,” she announced as she shook hands with Mrs. Fallows.

“Good-bye, dear 'eart,” said that lady, throwing up her hands aghast; “art goin' to leave us fer good?”

“No, nothing so bad,” said Dick; “only for a few weeks, Mrs. Fallows. The section couldn't do without her, and the trustees have decided that they wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a string on her.”

“Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear as 'ow yeh was goin' to leave. My little Joe was that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as 'ow 'e wouldn't go to school no more.”

“I don't wonder,” said Dick. “Why, if the trustees hadn't engaged her, as 'Maine Jabe' said, 'there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in the section.'”

“Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going in to sing to Ben, if I may.”

“An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart!” said Mrs. Fallows, picking up a twin from the doorway to allow Iola and Dick to pass into the inner room. “Ther' now,” she continued to Margaret, who was moving about putting things to rights, “don't yeh go tirin' of yerself. I know things is in a muss. Some'ow by Saturday night things piles up terr'ble, an' I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to straighten 'em up. Jest look at that 'ouse! I sez to John, sez I, 'I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! it's all I kin do to put the bread in their mouths an keep the rags on their backs.' But John sez to me, sez 'e, 'Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the rags. Keep 'em full,' sez 'e, 'a full belly never 'eeds a bare back,' sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways a-comin' over somethin' cleverlike, is John. Lard save us! will yeh listen to that, now!” she continued in an awestruck undertone, as Iola's voice came in full rich melody from the next room. “An' Ben is fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a sore calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' a-mutilatin' of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 'ad give me som'at more'n my share. Listen to that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits 'is hamputation an' 'is splits.”

“His splints,” cried Margaret; “are they all right now?”