Part 8

At length she drew away, saying, “I don't know why I should act like this. I haven't cried for a year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together for hours. Oh, it was wonderful music, but I could have shrieked aloud. Don't think me horrid,” she went on hurriedly. “I wonder I am not ashamed to tell you. But I never let anyone know, neither of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, Dick, no one knows.” She sat up straight, her courage coming back. “I never meant to tell you, Dick, but you know you took me unaware.” A little smile was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a faint flush touched her pale cheek. “But I am glad you know. And, Dick, can't we go back? Won't you forget what you have said?” Dick had been looking at her, wondering at her courage and self-command, but in his eyes a look of misery that went to the girl's heart.

“Forget!” he cried. “Tell me how.”

She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, she cried aloud, “Oh, Dick! must we go on and on like this?” She pressed her hands hard upon her heart. “There's a sore, sore pain right here,” she said. “Is there to be no rest, no relief from it? It's been there for two years.” She was fast losing her grip of herself again. Once more he caught her in his strong brown hands.

“Now, Margaret dear, don't do that! We'll help each other somehow. God--yes, God will help us if He takes any interest in us at all. He can't let us go on like this!”

The words steadied her.

“I know, Dick,” she said, a sudden quiet falling upon her, “there has been no one else for all these months, and He has helped me. He will help you, too. Come,” she continued, “let us go.”

“No, sit down and talk,” replied Dick. He looked at his watch. “A quarter after ten,” he said, in surprise. “Can the whole world change in one little quarter of an hour?” he asked, looking up at her, “it was ten when I stopped at the hill.”

“Come, Dick,” she said again, “we'll talk another time, I can't trust myself just now. I was going to your mother's.”

But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where he was. It seemed to him as if he had been in some strange land remote from this common life, and he shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its ordinary doings.

“I can't, Margaret,” he said. “You go. Let me fight it out.”

She knew too well where he was. “No, Dick, I will not leave you here. Come, do.” She went quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Help me, Dick,” she whispered.

It was the word he needed. He threw his arms about her, kissed her once, and then, as if seized with a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and again, her hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in hoarse, passionate tones, “I love you! I love you!” For a few moments she suffered him, and then gently pushed him back and drew apart from him. Her action recalled him to himself.

“Forgive me, Margaret,” he cried brokenly, “I'm a great, selfish brute. I think only of myself. Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again, don't think me quite a cad.”

He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if adjusting them to a load, gave her his hand, and lifted her up, and together they set off down the lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the other near.

X

FOR A LADY'S HONOUR

“Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?” asked Dr. Bulling of Iola.

They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the fireplace that had determined the choice of the room.

As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden splendour.

“Yes, of course,” she cried.

“And why 'of course'?” inquired the doctor.

“Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his gold medal.”

“And who is that, pray?”

“Mr. Boyle.”

“Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?”

“Yes,” replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, “he is from the country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as yet”--this with a little bow to her visitor--“but some day he will be great. And, besides, he is very nice.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” said the doctor, “seeing he is a friend of yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and will be glad to call for you.” The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice.

“You are very kind,” said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, “but I am going with friends.”

“Friends?” inquired the doctor. “And who, may I ask?” There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the more sweetly.

“Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital.”

“Nurse Robertson?” said Bulling. “Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't she?”

“A saint?” cried Iola, for the first time throwing energy into her voice. “Yes, a saint. But the best and sweetest and kindest and jolliest girl I know.”

“I should hardly have called her jolly,” said the doctor, with an air of dismissing her.

“Oh, she is!” cried Iola, enthusiastically, her large eyes glowing eager enthusiasm. “You ought to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years she took charge of her father's manse and the children in the most wonderful way. Looked after me, too.”

“Poor girl!” murmured the doctor. “She had a handful, sure enough.”

“Yes, you may say so. Then her father went on a trip to the old country, and, to the surprise of everybody, brought back a new wife.”

“And put the girl's nose out of joint,” said the doctor.

“Well, hardly that. But there was no longer need for her at home, and, on the whole, she felt better to be independent, and so here she has been for the last two years. She shares my room when she is at home, which is not often, and still takes care of me.”

“Most fortunate young lady she is,” murmured the doctor.

“So I am going with them,” continued Iola.

“Then I suppose nobody will see you.” The doctor's tone was quite gloomy.

“Why, I love to see all my friends.”

“It will be the usual thing,” said the doctor, “the same circle crowding you, the same impossibility of getting a word with you.”

“That depends on how much you--” cried Iola, throwing a swift smile at him.

“How much I want to?” interrupted the doctor eagerly. “You know quite well I--”

“How much time there is. You see, one can't be rude. One must speak to all one's friends. But, of course, one can always plan one's time. How ever,” she continued, “one can hardly expect to see much of the very popular Dr. Bulling, whose attention is always so fully taken up.”

“Oh, rot!” said the doctor. “I say, can't we get off a little together? There are nice quiet nooks about the old building.”

“Oh, doctor, how shocking!” But her eyes belied her voice, and the doctor departed with the lively expectation of a very pleasant convocation day at Trinity.

The convocation passed off with the usual uproar on the part of the students and the usual long-suffering endurance on the part of the dean and faculty and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to be the orators of the day, the fervent enthusiasm of the undergraduate body finding expression, now in college songs, whose chief characteristic was the vigour with which they were rendered, personal remarks in the way of encouragement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all who had to take part in the public proceedings, and at intervals in wildly uproarious applause and cheers at the mention of the name of some favourite. At no point was the fervour greater than when Barney was called to receive his medal. To the little group of friends at the left of the desk, consisting of his brother, Margaret, and Iola, it seemed as if the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost worthy of the occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, and as he spoke of the difficulties he had to contend with in the early part of his course, of the perseverance and indomitable courage the young man had shown, and the singular, indeed the very remarkable, ability he had manifested in the special line of study for which this medal was granted, the dead silence that pervaded the room was even more eloquent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney had taken his place again among the graduating class.

Then someone called out, “What's the matter with old Carbuncle?” eliciting the usual vociferous reply, “He's all right!”

“By Jove,” said Dick to Margaret, who sat next him, “isn't that great? And the old boy deserves it every bit!” But Margaret made no reply. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except for a spot of red in each cheek. At Dick's words she glanced at him for a moment, and he noticed that the large blue eyes were full of tears.

“It's all right, little girl,” he whispered, giving her hand a little pat. He dared say no more, for the sight of her face and the look in her eyes set his own heart beating and gave him a choke in his throat.

On the other side of Margaret sat Iola, her face radiant with pride and joy, and as Barney reached his seat, turning half around and in the face of the whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile so full of pride and love that it seemed to him at that moment as if all he had endured for the last three years were quite worth while.

After the formal proceedings were over, Dr. Bulling made his way to the little group about Barney.

“Congratulations, Boyle,” he said, in the somewhat patronizing manner of a graduate of some years' standing to one who holds his parchment in his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men wear new clothes, “that was a remarkable fine reception you had to-day.”

Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed his resentment of Bulling's tone and his dislike of the man. It angered Barney to observe the familiar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling with Iola, but it made him more furious to notice that, instead of resenting, Iola seemed to be pleased with his manner. Just now, however, she was giving herself to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy in him, and her quiet appreciation of him, were evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few words Dr. Bulling took himself off.

“Brute!” said Barney as the doctor retired.

“Why, I am sure he seems very nice,” said Iola, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Nice!” said Barney contemptuously. “If you knew how the men speak of him about town you wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in the swim, but he's a beast, all the same.”

“Oh, Barney, you mustn't say so!” cried Iola, “for you know he's been a great friend to me. He has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him.” Something in the tone of her voice, and more in the smile which she gave Barney, took the sting out of her words.

Before many minutes had passed the little group was broken up, chiefly because of the fact that Iola was soon surrounded by a circle of her own admiring friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. Bulling, who finally, with bluff, good-natured but almost rude aggressiveness, carried her off to the tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, that for the rest of the afternoon Iola's attention was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little coterie of friends.

And this feeling of disappointment in Iola and of resentment against Dr. Bulling he carried with him to a little stag dinner by the hospital staff at the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due chiefly to the exertions of Dr. Trent, and was intended by him not only to bring into closer touch with each other the members of the hospital staff, but also to be a kind of introduction of Barney to the inner circle of medical men in the city. For the past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as his assistant, and, indeed, Dr. Trent had made the formal proposition of an assistantship to him. Out of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that day to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and perhaps more to his steadying friendship. Dr. Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and his large social connection than for his professional standing, had been invited, was present with Foxmore, Smead, and others who followed him about applauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. The dinner was purely informal in character, the menu well chosen, the wines abundant, and the drinking hard enough with some, with the result that as the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the group about Bulling, became more and more hilarious. Barney, who was drinking water and keeping his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his attention divided between his conversation with Trent and the talk of Bulling, who, with his friends, sat across the table. As this group became more boisterous, they absorbed to themselves the attention of the whole company. Conscious of the prestige his wealth and social position accorded him, and inflamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became increasingly offensive. The talk degenerated. The stories and songs became more and more coarse in tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner of this kind, and it filled him with disgust and horror. Even Trent, by no means inexperienced in these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. Following Barney's glances and aware of his wandering attention, he was about to propose a breakup of the party when he was arrested by a look of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his friend.

“Disgusting brute!” said Trent, in a low voice.

But Barney heeded him not. His attention was concentrated upon Bulling. He had his glass in his hand.

“Here's to the Lane!” he was saying, “the sweetest little Lane in all the world!”

“She's divine!” replied Foxmore. “And what a voice! She'll make Canada famous some day. Where did you discover her, Bulling?”

“In church,” replied Bulling solemnly, to the uproarious delight of his followers. “That's right,” he continued, “heard her sing, set things in motion, and now she's the leading voice in the cathedral. Introduced her to a few people, and there she is, the finest thing in her line in the city! Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet little lane it is,” he continued in a tone of affectionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his teeth in furious rage.

“That she is,” said Smead enthusiastically, “and thoroughly straight, too!”

“Oh,” said Foxmore, “there's no lane but has a turning. And trust Bulling,” he added coarsely, “for finding it out.”

“Well,” said Bulling, with a knowing smile, “this little Lane is straight. Of course there may be a slight deflection. Nature's lines run in curves, you know.” And again his wit provoked applauding laughter. But before the laughter had quite faded out a voice was heard, clear and cutting.

“Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar!” The words were plainly audible to every man in the room. A dead silence fell upon the company.

“What?” said the doctor, sitting up straight, as if he had not heard aright.

“I say you are a cowardly liar!”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“You have just made an insinuation against the honour of a young lady. I say again you are a mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so.”

For a moment or two Bulling's surprise kept him silent.

“Quite right,” said Trent. “Beastly cad!”

Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. “You impertinent young cub! What do you mean?”

For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half full of wine, and flung glass and contents full in Bulling's face. In an instant every man was on his feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice.

“Give it to him Bulling! Give it to the young prig!”

“No hurry about this, boys,” said Bulling quietly; “I'll make him eat his words before he's half an hour older.”

Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. “Let me at him. He's a great knocker. Held the 'varsity championship. You don't know anything about it. Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up.” Dick had been 'varsity champion in his own time. But Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stern words.

“Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what happens, don't interfere to-night. I won't have it, Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm through with him.”

Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, were seeking to appease the doctor and to patch up the peace.

“If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off,” were the doctor's terms.

“If he says he lied,” was Barney's condition.

“Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bulling; “it will not take more than two minutes, and then we can finish our smoke.”

The moment they stood facing each other Barney rushed, only to receive a heavy blow which hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing of the game. It was equally plain that the doctor was entirely master of it. Again and again Barney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, avoiding and sending in killing blows, till at length bloody, dazed, panting, Barney had to lean against his friends to recover his wind and strength. Opposite him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his adversary.

“This is easy, boys,” he smiled. “Now, you young whipper-snapper,” he continued, addressing Barney, “perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the Eternal, I'll send you to sleep!” As he spoke he closed his teeth with a savage snap.

“Will you say you're a liar?” said Barney, facing his opponent again, and disregarding Dick's entreaties and warnings.

“Ah, quit it!” said the doctor contemptuously, “Come along, you fool, if you must have it!”

Once more Barney rushed. As he did so Bulling stopped him with a heavy left-hander on the face which sent him reeling backward, quickly following with his right and again with a last terrific blow upon the jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Barney fell with a crash upon the floor, and lay quiet. With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a dozen men pulled him off.

“Let him come,” said Bulling, with a laugh, “I've a very fine assortment of the same kind. Families supplied on reasonable terms.”

Meantime, while the men were struggling with Dick, Dr. Trent and Drake were trying to revive poor Barney, bathing his face and hands.

“Stand back! Don't crowd about, men! Bring me a little brandy, someone,” said Dr. Trent. “A more cowardly brute I've never seen. You're a disgrace to the profession, Bulling.”

“Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, Trent,” said Bulling cynically.

But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Barney, who showed signs of reviving. It was some minutes, however, before he could sit up. Meanwhile Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory.

“Here, Boyle,” said Treat, holding a glass to his lips as Barney sat up, “a little more brandy and water.”

For a few moments after he drank the liquor Barney sat gazing stupidly about. Then, as full consciousness returned, cried out, “Where is he? He's not gone?” He seized the glass of brandy and water from Dr. Treat's hands and drank it off. “Get me another,” he said. “Is he gone?” he repeated, making an effort to rise.

“Never mind, Boyle, he's gone.”

“Wait till another day, Barney,” entreated Dick. “Never mind to-night.”

At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, followed by loud laughter, came from the lavatory. At once Barney stood up, walked to the table, poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For a minute he stood stretching his arms.

“Ah, that's better,” he said, and started toward the lavatory, but Dick clung to him.

“Barney, listen to me,” he entreated, his voice coming in broken sobs. “He'll kill you. Let me take your place.”

“Dick, keep out of it,” said Barney. “Don't worry. He'll hurt me no more, but he'll say it before I'm done.” And, throwing off the restraining hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bulling was arranging his collar before a glass. As Barney entered he turned around.

“I'm sorry, Boyle,” he began, “but you brought it on yourself, you know.”

Barney walked straight up to him.

“I didn't hear you say you are a liar.”

“Look here,” cried Bulling, “haven't you got enough. Be thankful you're not killed. Go on! Get home! I don't run a butcher shop!”

“Will you say you're a liar and a cowardly liar?”

Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steel.

“I say, boys,” said Bulling, appealing to the crowd, “keep this fool off. I don't want to kill him.”

Foxmore, with some of the others, approached Barney.

“Now, Boyle, quit it,” said Foxmore. “There's no use, you see.” He laid his hand on Barney's arm.

Barney put his hand against his breast, appearing to brush him aside, but Foxmore touched nothing till he struck the wall ten feet away.