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?”
“Yes. Since the young doctor—that's w'at Benny calls 'im—change 'em. Oh, that's a clever young man! Benney, 'e sez, 'Give me the young doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see,” continued Mrs. Fallows confidentially, and again lowering her voice impressively, “yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orful at first, an' Benny cried to me, 'It's in me toes, mother, it's in me toes.' 'Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, 'yeh hain't got no toes, Benny.' 'That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 'e, 'toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes right up an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez 'e, 'Benny's right enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted away in the ground.' An' 'e tells as 'ow 'is sister's holdest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! an' 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' rotted away. Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' they do say,” and here Mrs. Fallows' voice dropped quite to a whisper, “as 'ow that keeps 'em sore all the longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in comes the doctor 'isself, an' father 'e told 'im as 'ow Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes. 'In yer toes, Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. 'Tain't yer toes, Ben.' 'Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the feelin',' sez Ben quite sharp, 'an' it's in me toes the feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. 'E's a terr'ble man fer hargument, is father. 'Doctor,' sez 'e, 'is them toes buried, if I might be so bold?' 'Cawn't say,' sez the doctor quite hindifferent, though 'e must 'a' knowed. 'Well, my opinion is,' sez father, ''e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'bout 'is sister's boy. 'Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 'tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as nothin' to do with it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ''Ow can 'e 'ave any feelin' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no toes?' 'Well,' sez the doctor, ''is feelin's hain't in 'is toes at all.' 'Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. 'W'en I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. W'en I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, 'it hain't in yer 'and, nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, yeh feel the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short again. My! 'e WAS short! 'But the feelin' in my mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 'Oh, come, Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But father is terr'ble persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, 'Don't 'is mind know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is mind feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't got no toes to 'urt?' 'It hain't 'is toes, I tell yeh,' sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind.' 'The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind?' sez father. 'But 'e hain't got no toes to give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind or henywheres else.' 'Dummed old fool!' sez the doctor, quite losin' 'is temper, fer father is terr'ble provokin'. 'It's the feelin' 'is toes used to give 'im, an' that same feelin' of toes keeps up after 'is toes is gone.' 'Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is eye to make 'im stop, 'I don't git no feelin' of toes till me toes is 'urt. If I don't 'urt 'em, I don't git no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start that ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it?' 'Yeh don't need no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, 'it's the old feelin' of toes a-keepin' up.' 'Ther' hain't no—' 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I tell yeh it hain't toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the brain. Don't yeh see? W'en the toes are 'urt the nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the telegraph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. 'W'ere's them nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone them nerves is gone, hain't they?' 'Yes.' 'But the nerve feelin' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. 'Then,' sez 'e, 'the feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's so,' sez the doctor. 'W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is gone. 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's?' 'Look 'ere,' sez the doctor, an' I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, well. All right, doctor,' sez father quite polite, 'I've got a terr'ble inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 'e set right down an' sez 'e, 'Look a-'ere, Mr. Fallows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph wire. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's a station we'll call London. Hevery station 'as 'is own call. Bradford station, we'll say, 'as a call X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in London yeh'd know somethin' was wrong with Bradford.' 'But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in father, who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' sez the doctor, 'till I git through. Well; all 'long that Bradford line yeh can give that Bradford call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford call houtside of Bradford?' sez father. 'Well,' sez the doctor, an' 'e seemed quite puzzled, 'e did, 'I suppose yeh can. Any kind of a bang'll do along the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, w'en they git 'urt they sounds up to the brain, “Toes! Toes! Toes!” an' all 'long that toe line yeh can git the same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a long time, then sez 'e, 'I say, doctor, is ther' many of them nerves?' ''Undreds of 'em.' 'Hevery part of the body got nerves?' 'Yes.' 'Hankles? calves? shins?' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, doctor,' sez father, quite triumphant, 'w'en yeh cut through hankles, shins, an' heverythin', all them nerves begin to shout, don't they?' 'Yes,' sez the doctor, not seein' w'ere father was at. 'Then,' sez 'e quick-like, 'w'at makes 'em all shout “Toes?” W'y don't the brain 'ear “Hankle” or “'Eel”?' Then the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear at father most orful. But father, 'e knows 'ow to conduct 'isself, an' sez 'e quite dignified, 'I 'ope as 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls the old doctor up an' 'e sez, 'I beg yer pardon, Mr. Fallows,' sez 'e. 'Don't mention it,' sez father. Then the doctor went on quite nice, 'Yeh see, Mr. Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these things very well,' sez 'e. 'Well, doctor,' sez father, 'it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble if yeh'd said so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks up sez, sez 'e, 'I think I know w'y it's the shoutin' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels or hankles,' sez 'e. 'W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little 'ouse, yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thirteen of 'em. An' I suppose w'en them toes gits a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankle, or 'eel, but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' 'e sez, as 'e druv' away, 'if it's not too bold, would yeh mind buryin' them toes?'”
“But,” said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, “I do talk. But poor Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is toes till that ther' blessed young lady come, the young doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. Poor dear! An 'e hain't ever done talkin' 'bout that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls.”
Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this grouping of names by Mrs. Fallows, but before she had time to analyse her feelings Iola reappeared.
“Well, good-bye,” said Mrs. Fallows. “Yeh'll come agin w'en yeh git back. Good-bye, Miss,” she said to Margaret. “It does seem to give me a fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights.”
It was not till that night when she was in her own room preparing for bed that Margaret had time to analyse that sudden pang.
“It can't be that I am jealous,” she said. “Of course, she is far more attractive than I am and why shouldn't everyone like her better?” She shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. “Do you know, you are as mean as you can be,” she said viciously.
At that moment there came from Iola's room the sound of soft singing.
“It's no wonder,” said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, “it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a voice like that. Yes, and—and the rest of them, too.”
In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an involuntary exclamation of admiration.
“My! you are lovely!” she cried. “No wonder everyone loves you.” With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for her “mean thoughts” she put her arms about Iola and kissed her warmly.
“Lovely! Nonsense!” she exclaimed, surprised at this display of affection so unusual for Margaret, “I am not half so lovely as you. When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and worthless.”
Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.
“Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you go the people just fall down and worship you.” As she spoke she let down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders. Iola looked critically at her.
“You are beautiful,” she said slowly. “Your hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it,” she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, “I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would forget me. They wouldn't forget you.”
“What nonsense!” said Margaret brusquely. “It is not your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft about you.”
“But the women don't care for me,” said Iola, with the same slow, thoughtful voice. “If I wanted very much I believe I could make them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me.”
“Now you're talking nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening.”
“Now,” continued Iola, ignoring her remark, “the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” said Margaret impatiently. “When you're around the boys don't look at me.”
“Yes, they do,” said Iola, as if pondering the question. “Ben does.”
Margaret laughed scornfully. “Ben likes my jelly.”
“And Dick does,” continued Iola, “and Barney.” Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck.
“Pshaw!” she cried angrily, “those boys! Of course, they like me. I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like—well—just like a boy, you know.”
“Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a chance to be anything.”
“Be anything!” cried Margaret hotly. “Why, Dick's going to be a minister and—”
“Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman. But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?”
“Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough,” replied Margaret indignantly.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir.” To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the “unheard of.” “And yet,” she went on, “if he had a chance—”
But Margaret could bear this no longer. “What are you talking about? There are plenty of good men who are never heard of.”
“Oh,” cried Iola quickly, “I didn't mean—of course your father. Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney—”
“Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night.”
“Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you.” As she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around her neck. Margaret relented.
“Of course I love you,” she said. “There,” kissing her, “good-night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty.”
But Iola clung to her. “Good-night, dear Margaret,” she said, her lips trembling pathetically. “You are the only girl friend I ever had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me.”
“I never forget my friends,” cried Margaret gravely. “And I never cease to love them.”
“Oh, Margaret!” said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, “don't turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me.”
“You little goose,” cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a child, “of course I will always love you. Good-night now.” She kissed Iola tenderly.
“Good-night,” said Iola. “You know this is my last night with you for a long time.”
“Not the very last,” said Margaret. “We go to the Mill to-morrow night, you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have Ben there for nursing and feeding.”
Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it.
Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only “paying his board,” as Barney declared, but “earning good wages as well.”
The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. “Ben needs you,” he argued. “And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. You must come.” It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that finally weighed with her.
The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in the shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair, Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be a “foreign” and “feckless” sort of instrument. But in spite of her there were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern “baby songs.”
Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock at first that he heard the Southern girl with her “foreign instrument” try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.
“No one sings them like your mother, Barney,” said Margaret after Dick had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences, “and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things when your mother sings.”
“Different how?” said Dick.
“I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink.”
“I know,” said Barney gravely. “They lose the Scotch with the guitar. They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden rose.”
“Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother,” cried Dick, “sing us one now.”
“Me sing!” cried the mother aghast. “After yon!” nodding toward Iola. “You would not be shaming your mother, Richard.”
“Shaming you, indeed!” cried Margaret, indignantly.
“Do, Mrs. Boyle,” entreated Iola. “I have never heard you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could sing.”
Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.
“Sing!” cried Dick. “You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,' too.”
“No,” said Barney quietly, “Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother.” And he began to play that exquisite Highland lament.
It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin accompanying.
Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell of mountain and glen and loch fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her feet, while Iola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon the stranger's face, softened to tears.
“Oh, that is too lovely!” cried Iola, when the song was done, clapping her hands. “No, not lovely. That is not the word. Sad, sad.” She hid her face in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, “I could never do that. Never! Never! What is it you put into the song? What is it?” she cried, turning to Barney.
“It's the moan of the sea,” said Barney gravely.
“It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside,” said Ben Fallows. “There hain't no words fer it.”
“Sing again,” entreated Iola, all the lazy indifference gone from her voice. “Sing just one more.”
“This one, mother,” said Barney, playing the tune, “your mother used to sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'.”
“How often haunting the highest hilltop,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see;
Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow?
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be.”
For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music upon them.
“One more, mother,” entreated Dick.
“No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye, and for Margaret here.”
Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. “Thank you,” she said, lifting up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, “you have given me great pleasure to-night.”
“Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a sudden pity for the motherless girl. “And we will be glad to see ye when ye come back again.”
For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget that afternoon.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Dick, striking an attitude, “though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'.”
“Aye,” said Barney with prompt heartiness.
“Me, too,” cried Iola, holding up both hands.
“Mother, what do you say?”
“Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer in the world.”
“And you?” turning to Margaret, who stood with Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown about her, “how do you vote?”
“This member needs it too much”—with a somewhat uncertain smile—“to say anything but 'Aye'.”
“Then,” said Dick solemnly, “the 'good cheer' department is hereby and henceforth organised as a permanent institution in the community here represented, and we earnestly hope that its members will continue in their faithful adherence thereto, believing, as we do, that loyalty to this institution will be its highest reward.”
But none of them knew what potencies of joy and of pain lay wrapped up for them all in that same department of “good cheer.”
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