The Doctor Part 17

"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.

"Get back!" cried Barney, springing away from the men approaching him.

As he spoke, he seized a small oak dressing table by one of its legs, swung it round his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble floor, and, putting his foot upon the wreckage, with one mighty wrench had the leg free in his hand.

"You men stand back," he said in a low voice, "and don't any of you interfere."

Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the men started back to their places, leaving a wide s.p.a.ce about him.

"Good heavens!" said Bulling, his face turning a shade pale, "the man is mad! Call a policeman, some of you."

"Drake, lock that door and bring me the key," said Barney.

As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned again toward Bulling, the latter's pallor increased. "I take you men to witness," he said, appealing to the company, "if murder is done I'm not responsible. I'm defending my life. Remember, I'll strike to kill."

"No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his club to Drake, "you won't strike at all. I've had my lesson. You'll strike me no more. The boxing exhibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight no more."

The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood cool, quiet, and terrible.

"I'll give you your chance once again," he said. "Will you say you are a cowardly liar?"

Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, read pain in their faces, hesitated a moment, then, pulling himself together, said, with an evident effort at bl.u.s.ter, "Not by a ---- sight! Come on! Take your medicine!" But the lesson of the last half hour had not been lost on Barney. Up and down the long room, circling about his man, feinting to draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney kept his antagonist in such rapid motion and so intensely on the alert that his wind began to fail him, and it soon became evident that he could not stand the pace for very long.

"You've got him!" cried d.i.c.k, in an ecstasy of expectation. "Keep it up, Barney! That's the game! You'll have him in five minutes more!"

"Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely enjoying the change in the situation.

Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deepened. Red blotches began to appear on his cheek. The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath came in short gasps. He knew he could not last much longer. His only hope lay in immediate attack. He must finish off his man within the next minute or accept defeat. Nature was now taking revenge upon him for his long outraging of her laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised and battered about the face, was stepping about easily and lightly, without any sign of the terrible punishment he had suffered. Reading his opponent's face he knew that the moment for a supreme effort had arrived, and waited for his plan to develop. There was only one thing for Bulling to do. Edging his opponent toward the corner and summoning his fast failing strength for a final attack, he forced him hard back into the angle of the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and all would be over.

"Look out, Barney!" yelled d.i.c.k.

Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney crouched low and leaped at his man, and disregarding two heavy blows, thrust one long arm forward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his enemy's throat. "Ha!" he cried with savage exultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. "Now!

Now! Now!" As he uttered each word between his clenched teeth he shook the gasping, choking wretch as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim struggled to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now clutching and clawing at those terrible gripping fingers. His face grew purple; his tongue protruded; his breath came in rasping gasps; his hands fell to his side. "Keep your hands so," hissed Barney, loosening his grip to give him air. "Ha! would you? Don't you move!" gripping him hard again.

"There!" loosening once more, "now, are you a liar? Speak quick!" The blue lips made an attempt at the affirmation of which the head made the sign. "Say it again. Are you a liar?" Once more the head nodded and the lips attempted to speak. "Yes," said Barney, still through his clenched teeth, "you are a cowardly liar!" The words came forth with terrible deliberation. "I could kill you with my hands as you stand. But I won't, you cur! I'll just do this." As he spoke he once more tightened his grip upon the throat and swung his open hand on the livid cheek.

"For G.o.d's sake, Boyle," cried Foxmore, "let up! That's enough!"

"Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the semi-conscious man on the floor, "it's enough for him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, when he uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost sweet, but that chilled the hearts of the hearers, "you laughed. You were a beastly cad, weren't you? Speak!"

"What? I--I--" gasped Foxmore, backing into the corner.

"Quick, quick!" cried Barney, stepping lightly toward him on his toes, "say it quick!" His fingers were working convulsively.

"Yes, yes, I was!" cried Foxmore, backing further away behind the others.

"Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoa.r.s.e, "you would all of you laugh at that brute ruin the name and honour of a lonely girl!" He walked up and down before the group which stood huddled in the corner in abject terror, more like a wild beast than a man. "You're not fit to live! You're beasts of prey! No decent girl is safe from you!" His voice rose loud and thin and harsh. He was fast losing hold of himself. His ghastly face, b.l.o.o.d.y and horribly disfigured, made an appalling setting for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer the crowd he walked, gnashing and grinding his teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a wild beast with a wild beast's l.u.s.t of blood. Further and further back cowered the group without a word, so utterly panic-stricken were they.

"Barney," said d.i.c.k quietly, "come home." He stopped short, with a mighty effort recalling his reason. For a few moments he stood silent looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let them rest upon the doctor, who was leaning against the wall, and, without a word, turned and slowly pa.s.sed out of the room.

"Gad!" said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of relief, "if the devil looks like that I never want to see him."

XI

IOLA'S CHOICE

Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her table. She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving leaves and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep impression upon her heart, was when the men carried out her father in a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared veranda, she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first glad freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her own bread as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, one face, rugged, strong, and pa.s.sionate, and the thought of him brought a warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first she saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit s.p.a.ce of the barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while she sang. At that point it was that life for her began.

A new scene pa.s.sed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria.

She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his trembling, broken voice, "My dear young lady, the world will listen to you some day!" That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen.

Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical pupils, for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to heart-break with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends--how she loathed it--of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here and there, "We have succeeded at last--the Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you only want a chance--here it is--you can do the part well." She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she could do the part. "And now let nothing or n.o.body prevent you from accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Sat.u.r.day. It is a beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will be gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, I foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile slightly sarcastic to curl her lips.

"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Sat.u.r.day?

That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either."

For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend its hours quietly enough upon the yacht.

She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address written in bold characters. "This is the Duff Charrington invitation, I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she does it nicely, at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her inclination."

Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and do her will.

She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she cried, seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. "Barney, poor old boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid triumphs, Barney had not appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek.

Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be free to study, and--well, it was better to be free till she had made her name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney would come to her.

But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public.

Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come what might. No such absorbing pa.s.sion possessed Iola. And Iola, while she was provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor break. No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient husband.

What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no.

Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall.