Part 73

“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, she said, “You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you.” And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little song that described so fittingly her own experience, “My Heart's Rest.”

“I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, When the Master came to close His fold And saw that one had strayed.

“Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till The Master's voice searched vale and hill: I heard and fled afraid.

“Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. And the stars went out, and the day was gone, Then the Master found, laid me upon His bosom, unafraid.”

A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate.

“I feel as if I could sleep now,” said Iola. “Barney, carry me.” Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. “Good-night, dear friends, all,” she said. “What a happy evening it has been.” Then, with a little cry, “Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping,” she locked her arms tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. “Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own love,” she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. “How good you are to me--how good to have you. Now kiss me--quick--don't wait--again, dear--good-night.” Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her head sank upon his breast.

“Iola!” he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down into her face. He carried her to the open window. “Oh, my God! My God! She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!”

But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him alone with his dead.

For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near.

At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot where her dead lay.

“We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here,” she said. “You know we love her dearly.”

“It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven,” Barney replied, his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. “She loved this valley, and it was here she first found rest.”

“Yes, she loves this valley,” replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. “And here she found peace and perfect love again.”

A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she had made her London debut in “Lohengrin.” There in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace.

XXIII

THE LAST CALL

Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various forms he felt that he stood almost alone.

At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that ground.

“Well,” said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, “how did the meeting go last night?”

“I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all.”

“Yes,” replied Daggett, “your men are all right in their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business.”

Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of the situation.

“There is something in what you say,” he conceded, “but--”

“Oh, come now,” interrupted Daggett, “you know better than that. This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to do nothing.”

“You seem to know all about it,” said Dick. “What's the good of your paper? Why don't you get after these men?”

“My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations that determine newspaper policy.”