The Doctor [129]
and came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the last weariness, the final strife."
"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now."
But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.
"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together again--us three," he corrected, glancing at Margaret.
"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
"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now."
But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.
"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together again--us three," he corrected, glancing at Margaret.
"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