The Doctor [117]
him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing its claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held the gaze of the whole company.
"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But it's better," she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy laugh, "to be a woman."
It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close.
"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,
"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But it's better," she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy laugh, "to be a woman."
It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close.
"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,