By the time they had reached the hotel Cameron was glad enough to go to his bed.
“You need not tell your wife, I suppose,” said the doctor.
“Tell her? Certainly!” said Cameron. “She is with me in this. I play fair with her. Don't you fear, she is up to it.”
And so she was, and, though her face grew white as she listened to the tale, never for a moment did her courage falter.
“Doctor, is Allan all right? Tell me,” she said, her big blue eyes holding his in a steady gaze.
“Right enough, but he must have a long sleep. You must not let him stir at five.”
“Then,” said Mandy, “I shall go to meet the train, Allan.”
“But you don't know Moira.”
“No, but I shall find her out.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Martin in a deprecating tone, “I know Miss Cameron, but—”
“Of course you do,” cried Mandy. “Why, that is splendid! You will go and Allan need not be disturbed. She will understand. Not a word, now, Allan. We will look after this, the doctor and I, eh, Doctor?”
“Why—eh—yes—yes certainly, of course. Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” echoed Mandy briskly. “She will understand.”
And thus it was arranged. Under the influence of a powder left by Dr. Martin, Cameron, after an hour's tossing, fell into a heavy sleep.
“I am so glad you are here,” said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in upon her. “You are sure there is no injury?”
“No, nothing serious. Shock, that's all. A day's quiet will fix him up.”
“I am so thankful,” said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, “and I am so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira.”
“You are not going to the train?” said the doctor.
“No, no, there is no need, and I don't like to leave him. Besides you don't need me.”
“N-o-o, no, not at all—certainly not,” said the doctor with growing confidence. “Good-night. I shall show her to her room.”
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much. So glad you are here,” she added with a tremulous smile.
The doctor passed down the stairs.
“By Jove, she's a brick!” he said to himself. “She has about all she can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what about this thing? It's up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and I'm scared—plain scared to death. She won't know me from a goat. Let's see. I've got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I'll have a pipe to start with.”
He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages, moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified, and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet, in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.
“Oh, pshaw!” he grumbled to himself at last, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “She has forgotten me. It was only one single day. But what a day!”
He lit a fresh pipe and began anew to dream of that wonderful day, that day which was the one unfading point of light in all his Old Country stay. Not even the day when he stood to receive his parchment and the special commendation of the Senatus and of his own professor for his excellent work lived with him like that day in the Glen. Every detail of the picture he could recall and ever in the foreground the maiden. With deliberate purpose he settled himself in his chair and set himself to fill in those fine and delicate touches that were necessary to make perfect the foreground of his picture, the pale olive face with its bewildering frame of golden waves and curls, the clear brown eyes, now soft and tender, now flashing with wrath, and the voice with its soft Highland cadence.
“By Jove, I'm dotty! Clean dotty! I'll make an ass of myself, sure thing, when I see her to-day.” He sprang from his chair and shook himself together. “Besides, she has forgotten all about me.” He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to train-time. He opened the door and looked out. The chill morning air struck him sharply in the face. He turned quickly, snatched his overcoat from a nail in the hall and put it on.
At this point Billy, who combined in his own person the offices of ostler, porter and clerk, appeared, his lantern shining with a dim yellow glare in the gray light of the dawn.
“No. 1 is about due, Doc,” he said.
“She is, eh? I say, Billy,” said the Doctor, “want to do something for me?” He pushed a dollar at Billy over the counter.
“Name it, Doc, without further insult,” replied Billy, shoving the dollar back with a lordly scorn.
“All right, Billy, you're a white little soul. Now listen. I want your ladies' parlor aired.”
“Aired?” gasped Billy.
“Yes, open the windows. Put on a fire. I have a lady coming—I have—that is—Sergeant Cameron's sister is coming—”
“Say no more,” said Billy with a wink. “I get you, Doc. But what about the open window, Doc? It's rather cold.”
“Open it up and put on a fire. Those Old Country people are mad about fresh air.”
“All right, Doc,” replied Billy with another knowing wink. “The best is none too good for her, eh?”
“Look here, now, Billy—” the doctor's tone grew severe—“let's have no nonsense. This is Sergeant Cameron's sister. He is knocked out, unable to meet her. I am taking his place. Do you get me? Now be quick. If you have any think juice in that block of yours turn it on.”
Billy twisted one ear as if turning a cock, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles.
“Doc,” he said solemnly, “she's workin' like a watch, full jewel, patent lever.”
“All right. Now get on to this. Sitting-room aired, good fire going, windows open and a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee? Say, Doc, there ain't time. What about tea?”
“You know well enough, Billy, you haven't got any but that infernal green stuff fit to tan the stomach of a brass monkey.”
“There's another can, Doc. I know where it is. Leave it to me.”
“All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?”
“Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly. You keep her out a-viewin' the scenery for half an hour.”
“And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can't live without hot water in the morning, those Old Country people.”
“Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like.”
“No, a pitcher will do.”
At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning air.
“There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc—”
But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.
“Say, he's a sprinter,” said Billy to himself. “He ain't takin' no chances on bein' late. Shouldn't be surprised if the Doc got there all right.”
He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies' parlor. The air was heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the furniture in confusion. The ladies' parlor was perfectly familiar to Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.
“Say, the Doc ain't fair. He's too swift in his movements,” he muttered to himself as he proceeded to fling things into their places. He raised the windows, opened the stove door and looked in. The ashes of many fires half filling the box met his eyes with silent reproach. “Say, the Doc ain't fair,” he muttered again. “Them ashes ought to have been out of there long ago.” This fact none knew better than himself, inasmuch as there was no other from whom this duty might properly be expected. Yet it brought some small relief to vent his disgust upon this offending accumulation of many days' neglect. There was not a moment to lose. He was due in ten minutes to meet the possible guests for the Royal at the train. He seized a pail left in the hall by the none too tidy housemaid and with his hands scooped into it the ashes from the stove, and, leaving a cloud of dust to settle everywhere upon tables and chairs, ran down with his pail and back again with kindling and firewood and had a fire going in an extraordinarily short time. He then caught up an ancient antimacassar, used it as a duster upon chairs and tables, flung it back again in its place over the rickety sofa and rushed for the station to find that the train had already pulled in, had come to a standstill and was disgorging its passengers upon the platform.
“Roy—al Ho—tel!” shouted Billy. “Best in town! All the comforts and conveniences! Yes, sir! Take your grip, sir? Just give me them checks! That's all right, leave 'em to me. I'll get your baggage all right.”
He saw the doctor wandering distractedly up and down the platform.
“Hello, Doc, got your lady? Not on the Pullman, eh? Take a look in the First Class. Say, Doc,” he added in a lower voice, coming near to the doctor, “what's that behind you?”
The doctor turned sharply and saw a young lady whose long clinging black dress made her seem taller than she was. She wore a little black hat with a single feather on one side, which gave it a sort of tam o' shanter effect. She came forward with hand outstretched.
“I know you, Mr. Martin,” she said in a voice that indicated immense relief.
“You?” he cried. “Is it you? And to think I didn't know you. And to think you should remember me.”
“Remember! Well do I remember you—and that day in the Cuagh Oir—but you have forgotten all about that day.” A little flush appeared on her pale cheek.
“Forgotten?” cried Martin.
“But you didn't know me,” she added with a slight severity in her tone.
“I was not looking for you.”
“Not looking for me?” cried the girl. “Then who—?” She paused in a sudden confusion, and with a little haughty lift of her head said, “Where is Allan, my brother?”
But the doctor ignored her question. He was gazing at her in stupid amazement.
“I was looking for a little girl,” he said, “in a blue serge dress and tangled hair, brown, and all curls, with brown eyes and—”
“And you found a grown up woman with all the silly curls in their proper place—much older—very much older. It is a habit we have in Scotland of growing older.”
“Older?”
“Yes, older, and more sober and sensible—and plainer.”
“Plainer?” The doctor's mind was evidently not working with its usual ease and swiftness, partly from amazement at the transformation that had resulted in this tall slender young lady standing before him with her stately air, and partly from rage at himself and his unutterable stupidity.
“But you have not answered me,” said the girl, obviously taken aback at the doctor's manner. “Where is my brother? He was to meet me. This is Cal—gar—ry, is it not?”
“It's Calgary all right,” cried the doctor, glad to find in this fact a solid resting place for his mind.
“And my brother? There is nothing wrong?” The alarm in her voice brought him to himself.
“Wrong? Not a bit. At least, not much.”
“Not much? Tell me at once, please.” With an imperious air the young lady lifted her head and impaled the doctor with her flashing brown eyes.
“Well,” said the doctor in halting confusion, “you see, he met with an accident.”
“An accident?” she cried. “You are hiding something from me, Mr. Martin. My brother is ill, or—”
“No, no, not he. An Indian hit him on the head,” said the doctor, rendered desperate by her face.
“An Indian?” Her cry, her white face, the quick clutch of her hands at her heart, roused the doctor's professional instincts and banished his confusion.
“He is perfectly all right, I assure you, Miss Cameron. Only it was better that he should have his sleep out. He was most anxious to meet you, but as his medical adviser I urged him to remain quiet and offered to come in his place. His wife is with him. A day's rest, believe me, will make him quite fit.” The doctor's manner was briskly professional and helped to quiet the girl's alarm.
“Can I see him?” she asked.
“Most certainly, in a few hours when he wakes and when you are rested. Here, Billy, take Miss Cameron's checks. Look sharp.”
“Say, Doc,” said Billy in an undertone, “about that tea and toast—”
“What the deuce—?” said the doctor impatiently. “Oh, yes—all right! Only look lively.”
“Keep her a-viewin' the scenery, Doc, a bit,” continued Billy under his breath.
“Oh, get a move on, Billy! What are you monkeying about?” said the doctor quite crossly. He was anxious to escape from a position that had become intolerable to him. For months he had been looking forward to this meeting and now he had bungled it. In the first place he had begun by not knowing the girl who for three years and more had been in his dreams day and night, then he had carried himself like a schoolboy in her presence, and lastly had frightened her almost to death by his clumsy announcement of her brother's accident. The young lady at his side, with the quick intuition of her Celtic nature, felt his mood, and, not knowing the cause, became politely distant.
On their walk to the hotel Dr. Martin pointed out the wonderful pearly gray light stealing across the plain and beginning to brighten on the tops of the rampart hills that surrounded the town.
“You will see the Rockies in an hour, Miss Cameron, in the far west there,” he said. But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.
“Ah, yes, how beautiful!” said the young lady. But her tone, too, was lifeless.
Desperately the doctor strove to make conversation during their short walk and with infinite relief did he welcome the appearance of Mandy at her bedroom door waiting their approach.
“Your brother's wife, Miss Cameron,” said he.
For a single moment they stood searching each other's souls. Then by some secret intuition known only to the female mind they reached a conclusion, an entirely satisfactory conclusion, too, for at once they were in each other's arms.
“You are Moira?” cried Mandy.
“Yes,” said the girl in an eager, tremulous voice. “And my brother? Is he well?”
“Well? Of course he is—perfectly fine. He is sleeping now. We will not wake him. He has had none too good a night.”
“No, no,” cried Moira, “don't wake him. Oh, I am so glad. You see, I was afraid.”
“Afraid? Why were you afraid?” inquired Mandy, looking indignantly at the doctor, who stood back, a picture of self condemnation.
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cameron, blame me. I deserve it all. I bungled the whole thing this morning and frightened Miss Cameron nearly into a fit, for no other reason than that I am all ass. Now I shall retire. Pray deal gently with me. Good-by!” he added abruptly, lifted his hat and was gone.
“What's the matter with him?” said Mandy, looking at her sister-in-law.
“I do not know, I am sure,” replied Moira indifferently. “Is there anything the matter?”
“He is not like himself a bit. But come, my dear, take off your things. As the doctor says, a sleep for a couple of hours will do you good. After that you will see Allan. You are looking very weary, dear, and no wonder, no wonder,” said Mandy, “with all that journey and—and all you have gone through.” She gathered the girl into her strong arms. “My, I could just pick you up like a babe!” She held her close and kissed her.
The caressing touch was too much for the girl. With a rush the tears came.
“Och, oh,” she cried, lapsing into her Highland speech, “it iss ashamed of myself I am, but no one has done that to me for many a day since—since—my father—”
“There, there, you poor darling,” said Mandy, comforting her as if she were a child, “you will not want for love here in this country. Cry away, it will do you good.” There was a sound of feet on the stairs. “Hush, hush, Billy is coming.” She swept the girl into her bedroom as Billy appeared.
“Oh, I am just silly,” said Moira impatiently, as she wiped her eyes. “But you are so good, and I will never be forgetting your kindness to me this day.”
“Hot water,” said Billy, tapping at the door.
“Hot water! What for?” cried Mandy.
“For the young lady. The doctor said she was used to it.”
“The doctor? Well, that is very thoughtful. Do you want hot water, Moira?”
“Yes, the very thing I do want to get the dust out of my eyes and the grime off my face.”
“And the tea is in the ladies' parlor,” added Billy.
“Tea!” cried Mandy, “the very thing!”
“The doctor said tea and toast.”
“The doctor again!”
“Sure thing! Said they were all stuck on tea in the Old Country.”
“Oh, he did, eh? Will you have tea, Moira?”
“No tea, thank you. I shall lie down, I think, for a little.”
“All right, dear, we will see you at breakfast. Don't worry. I shall call you.”
Again she kissed the girl and left her to sleep. She found Billy standing in the ladies' parlor with a perplexed and disappointed look on his face.
“The Doc said she'd sure want some tea,” he said.
“And you made the tea yourself?” inquired Mandy.
“Sure thing! The Doc—”
“Well, Billy, I'd just love a cup of tea if you don't mind wasting it on me.”
“Sure thing, ma'm! The Doc won't mind, bein' as she turned it down.”
“Where is Dr. Martin gone, Billy? He needs a cup of tea; he's been up all night. He must be feeling tough.”
“Judgin' by his langwidge I should surmise yes,” said Billy judicially.
“Would you get him, Billy, and bring him here?”
“Get him? S'pose I could. But as to bringin' him here, I'd prefer wild cats myself. The last I seen of him he was hikin' for the Rockies with a blue haze round his hair.”
“But what in the world is wrong with him, Billy?” said Mandy anxiously. “I've never seen him this way.”
“No, nor me,” said Billy. “The Doc's a pretty level headed cuss. There's somethin' workin' on him, if you ask me.”
“Billy, you get him and tell him we want to see him at breakfast, will you?”
Billy shook his head.
“Tell him, Billy, I want him to see my husband then.”
“Sure thing! That'll catch him, I guess. He's dead stuck on his work.”
And it did catch him, for, after breakfast was over, clean-shaven, calm and controlled, and in his very best professional style, Dr. Martin made his morning call on his patient. Rigidly he eliminated from his manner anything beyond a severe professional interest. Mandy, who for two years had served with him as nurse, and who thought she knew his every mood, was much perplexed. Do what she could, she was unable to break through the barrier of his professional reserve. He was kindly courteous and perfectly correct.
“I would suggest a quiet day for him, Mrs. Cameron,” was his verdict after examining the patient. “He will be quite able to get up in the afternoon and go about, but not to set off on a hundred and fifty mile drive. A quiet day, sleep, cheerful company, such as you can furnish here, will fix him up.”
“Doctor, we will secure the quiet day if you will furnish the cheerful company,” said Mandy, beaming on him.
“I have a very busy day before me, and as for cheerful company, with you two ladies he will have all the company that is good for him.”
“CHEERFUL company, you said, Doctor. If you desert us how can we be cheerful?”
“Exactly for that reason,” replied the doctor.
“Say, Martin,” interposed Cameron, “take them out for a drive this afternoon and leave me in peace.”
“A drive!” cried Mandy, “with one hundred and fifty miles behind me and another hundred and fifty miles before me!”
“A ride then,” said Cameron. “Moira, you used to be fond of riding.”
“And am still,” cried the girl, with sparkling eyes.
“A ride!” cried Mandy. “Great! This is the country for riding. But have you a habit?”
“My habit is in one of my boxes,” replied Moira.
“I can get a habit,” said the doctor, “and two of them.”
“That's settled, then,” cried Mandy. “I am not very keen. We shall do some shopping, Allan, you and I this afternoon and you two can go off to the hills. The hills! th—ink of that, Moira, for a highlander!” She glanced at Moira's face and read refusal there. “But I insist you must go. A whole week in an awful stuffy train. This is the very thing for you.”
“Yes, the very thing, Moira,” cried her brother. “We will have a long talk this morning then in the afternoon we will do some business here, Mandy and I, and you can go up the Bow.”
“The Bow?”
“The Bow River. A glorious ride. Nothing like it even in Scotland, and that's saying a good deal,” said her brother with emphasis.
This arrangement appeared to give complete satisfaction to all parties except those most immediately interested, but there seemed to be no very sufficient reason with either to decline, hence they agreed.
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