Part 17

“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.