Читать книгу Purple Springs - Nellie Letitia McClung - Страница 5

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When the operation was over, the two doctors drove back to Millford, the younger man so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts he hardly heard the older doctor’s incessant conversation. But that did not in any wise discourage Dr. Brander, for to him, talking was much like breathing, it went on easily, unconsciously, and without the necessity of a listener.

On Dr. Clay there had fallen the pleasant, drowsy feeling of one whose work is done for the day, and a hard day it had been, with its uncertainty of the delayed train, and his patient’s condition. But all had gone well, and his patient’s reaction had been satisfactory. More than that, the older doctor had concurred in all that he had done, and commended his treatment of the case from the beginning.

So, comfortably seated in the cutter, with a brown bear robe over their knees, and the mate of it over the seat, the two doctors drove home in the purple-blue twilight, seated side by side, but with minds far removed from each other.

The doctor’s horses knew every road that led home, and trotted on without any guidance or word from him—they were a fine team of glossy chestnuts of whom the young doctor was extremely proud. But tonight, a strange lassitude of spirit was upon him and he only wanted to relax his weary brain and dream away the snowy miles to the rhythmic beat of the horses’ hoofs.

He had never been more contented in his life. His work was going well—that day the Liberals had offered him the nomination for the coming provincial election! It was an honor which he appreciated, though he had no desire to enter politics. He loved his work—the people he served were devoted to him—he could read it in their faces and their stammering words. He knew what they wanted to say, even though it was conveyed in a few halting fragments of sentences—“You’re all right—Doc—sure—glad you got here—we knew you’d make it—somehow—you and them high steppers of yours can get through the snow—if any one can.”

Slowly, for a great weariness was on him, he began to think of Pearl, the red-cheeked shining-eyed Pearl, who had singled him out for her favor ever since he came to the village six years ago; Pearl, with her contagious optimism and quaint ways, who had the good gift of putting every one in good humor. He smiled to himself when he thought of how often he had made it convenient to pass the school just at four o’clock, and give Pearl and the rest of them a ride home, and the delight he had always had in her fresh young face, so full of lights and shadows.

“Robbing the cradle, eh, Doc?” Sam Motherwell had once said, in his clumsy way, when he met them on the road—“Nothin’ like pickin’ them out young and trainin’ them up the way you want them.”

He had made no answer to this, but he still felt the wave of anger that swept over him at the blundering words. “All the same, I wish Pearl were older”—he had admitted to himself that day. “If she keeps her wise little ways and her clever tongue, she’ll be a great woman—she has a way with her.”

At the rink, he had always looked forward to a skate with her—it was really a dull night for him if she were not there, and now he wondered just what it was that attracted him so. There was a welcoming gladness in her eyes that flattered him, a comradeship in her conversation that drew him on to talk with more ease and freedom; there was a wholesome friendliness in what she said, which always left him a sense of physical and mental well-being.

“What a nurse she would make,” he thought, “what a great nurse;” “I wish she were older ... eighteen is too young for a girl to marry—I wouldn’t allow it at all—if I didn’t know who she is getting—that makes all the difference in the world ... of course her father and mother may object, but I believe what Pearl says, goes—what Pearl says will go—with all of us! The Parker house can be bought—and fixed up ... we’ll have a fireplace put in, and waterworks—I wish I did not feel so tough and tired ... but she said she’d wait a thousand years!”

Suddenly the voice of Dr. Brander rasped through his brain, and brought him to attention:

“Clay, you’re in love, or something—I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said, you young scamp, in the last six miles—and you’ve missed a fine exposition on cancers—causes and cure.”

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Brander,” he apologized, “I believe I was almost asleep. I get into a drowsy habit on my long drives—especially when I am coming home—when the days’ work is over—it seems good to stretch out—but I do apologize: What were you saying?”

“O, I’m done now,” said his companion, not in the least disturbed; “I want you to tell me about yourself and your work here. You know you interest me, Clay. You are a sort of popular idol with all these people, and I have been wondering how you do it. A man must give freely of himself to be as popular as you are, Clay—do you ever find yourself giving out under the strain, and in need of a rest?”

“Just a little tired, sometimes,” the young man confessed, “but it’s nothing—at all.”

The old man watched him narrowly, taking careful note that the pallor of his face had suddenly changed to a heightened color. “When we get supper, Clay, I want to have a serious talk with you. You may remember that I approached this subject the last time you were in the city. I want to give you the report on the examination I gave you at that time.” There was a quality in his voice which gave the young man a momentary sense of dread, not unmixed with a certain impatience. He was too tired to be bothered. He wanted nothing but a chance to think his own thoughts, as the sorrel team struck off the miles with their tireless feet.

When they had had supper at the Chinese restaurant, they went to the doctor’s office. The sun, though long since set, still threw spikes of light upon the western sky and caught the under side of one ragged cloud which seemed to have been forgotten in an otherwise clear sky.

In the office, a cheerful coal fire glowed through its mica windows, and in front of the doctor’s leather chair, were his slippers, and over it was thrown a brightly colored house coat.

A gasoline lamp threw a strong white light on the comfortable room, and the city papers lay, still unfolded, on the table beside a pile of letters.

The old doctor exclaimed with delight:

“Who fixes you up so fine, Clay—surely there’s a woman around this place!”

“My landlady”—said the young doctor, “looks after me.”

“I know, I know,” said the older man, “I know the kind of fellow you are—the kind women love to fuss around. I’ll bet you get dozens of bedroom slippers and ties and mufflers at Christmas. Women are like cats—they love to rub their heads against any one that will stroke them and say ‘poor pussy’—they’re all the same.”

The old doctor seated himself in the big chair and warmed his hands before the glowing coals.

“And now, Clay, I want to talk to you. There are certain facts that must be told. I have been interested in your case ever since I met you. You are a distinct type, with your impulsive temperament, clear skin and tapering fingers. But what I have to say to you would have been said easier if I did not know you so well—and if I had not been here and seen you in your native setting—as it were.... Being a medical man yourself, Clay, you know the difficulties of the situation.”

The young doctor sat down suddenly, and smiled wanly:

“There need be no difficulty, Dr. Brander,” he said, “I am ready to hear ...” he left the sentence unfinished.

The old doctor went on:

“There is no immediate cause for alarm,” he said, speaking slowly, “people live for years with it, as you know—a cracked plate sometimes outlasts the good one—and as a matter of fact none of us are entirely free from it.”

The old doctor was swaying backwards as he spoke, and his voice rose and fell with the motion, as the tone of a phonograph when the door is opened or shut.

“You will have to be more careful, though, Clay, you will have to call a halt on your activities—there must be no more of the all night sessions of yours—and those fifty mile drives—it is just like this—you are carrying a mortgage on your business—a heavy mortgage—and yet one that the business can carry—with care, great care. Many a good business man carries a heavy mortgage and pays well too, but of course it cannot stand financial strain or stress like the business which is clear of debt. With great care, you should be good for many years—but you must not draw on your reserves—you must never spend your capital—you must never be tired, or excited, or hurried, or worried.

“And this climate is a bit strenuous in winter—you must get out before another one comes, and live some place that is easier. This country keeps a man on his toes all the time, with its brilliant sunshine, its strong winds, its bracing air. You need a softer air, a duller atmosphere, a sleepier environment that will make you never do today what you can put off till tomorrow, and never put off till tomorrow what you might as well put off till the day after tomorrow.”

“What a life!” broke from the young man’s lips.

“A very fascinating life, my dear sir,” said the old doctor, intoning his words like a very young clergyman—“a fascinating life, and one that I would enjoy. Here we hurry up in the morning and hurry to bed at night so we can hurry to get up again in the morning—we chase ourselves around like a cat in the ancient pursuit of its own tail, and with about the same results. The Western mind is in a panic all the time—losing time by the fear of losing time. The delights of mediation are not ours—we are pursued, even as we pursue; we are the chasers and the chased; the hunter and the hunted; we are spending and the spent; we are borrowed and lent—and what is the good of it all? I have always wanted to be an Oriental, dreaming in the shade of a palm tree, letting the sun and the wind ripen my fruits and my brain, while I sat—with never a care—king of the earth—and the air—O, take it from me, young fellow, there are wonderful delights in contemplation, delights of which we are as ignorant as the color blind are of the changing hues of the Autumn woods, or the deaf man is of music. We are deaf, blind and dumb about the things of the soul! We think activity is the only form of growth.”

The young doctor, whose handsome face had grown pale, watched him with a sort of fascination. The words seemed to roll from his lips without the slightest effort, and apparently without causing his heart one emotion. If the young doctor had not known him so well, he would have thought him entirely unconcerned:

“We are cursed, you and I, and all of us,” he resumed, with too much activity. We are obsessed with a passion for material achievement! We are hand-worshippers—leg-worshippers—speed-worshippers. We mistake activity for progress.”

“But it is progress,” burst from the young man, “activity does bring achievement—development.”

The door of the office opened suddenly, and two young fellows rushed in.

“Are you coming to the lacrosse meeting, Doc,—we are going to organize, and we want you for President again, of course.”

Then, seeing the city doctor, whom they recognized,—

“Excuse the interruption, but we can’t get on without Dr. Clay, he’s the whole works of the lacrosse team.”

“I will not be able to go over tonight, boys,” said the Doctor, “but you’ll get on all right. You are getting to work pretty early—this is the first fine day.”

When the lacrosse boys had gone, Dr. Clay finished his argument:

“These fellows prove what I was saying. When I came here six years ago, there was not even a baseball team in the place—the young fellows gathered on street corners in summer, loafing and idling, revelling in crazy, foolish degrading stories—absolute degenerations—now see them—on the tail of a blizzard, they dig out their lacrosse sticks and start the game on the second fine day. From the time the hockey is over now, until hockey time again—these fellows talk and dream lacrosse, and a decenter, cleaner lot of lads you won’t find anywhere. Activity has saved them—activity is growth, it is life—it is everything!”

The old man shook his head slowly:

“They are not saved, my dear boy—none of us are—who depend on outward things for your happiness. Outward things change—vanish. ‘As a man thinketh in his heart—so is he!’—that is the secret of triumphant living. As a man thinketh. These fellows of yours—for I know this lacrosse team has been one of the many ways you took of sapping your energy—do not think. They play, run, scrap, cheer, but there’s no meditation—no turning inward of the thoughts, no mental progress.”

“It would not be natural for growing boys, alive to their fingertips, to sit yapping like lazy collie dogs, just thinking,” said the young doctor heatedly. “They want avenues of self-expression, and in lacrosse and hockey they find it.”

“Artificial aids to happiness—every one of them—crutches for lame souls—the Kingdom of Heaven is within you,” the old doctor rambled on, “but it is all a part of this great new country—this big west is new and crude and distinct—only the primary colors are used in the picture, there are no half tones, no shadows, and above all—or perhaps I should say behind all—no background. A thing is good or bad—black or white—blue or red. We are mostly posters here in this great big, dazzling country.”

In the silence that fell on them, the young man’s mind went limping back to the old doctor’s first words—the dreadful, fateful, significant words. He had said it—said the thing that if it were true would exile him from the world he loved! On him the ban had fallen!

“I suppose,” said he, standing behind his chair, whose back he held with nervous fingers, “there is no chance that you might be mistaken. It is hard for me to believe this. I am so strong—so well—so much alive, except my cough—I am as well as ever I was, and the cough is a simple thing—this seems impossible to me!”

The old doctor had gone to the window to watch the throng of boys and girls who raced past on their way to the hill for an evening’s sleigh-ride.

“It always seems impossible,” he said, with the air of a man who is totally disassociated from human affairs, and is simply stating an interesting fact, “that is part of the disease, and a very attractive part too. The people who have it, never think they have—even to the last they are hopeful—and sure they will be better tomorrow. No, I am afraid I am not mistaken. You know yourself the theory Clay, of the two sets of microbes, the builders and the destroyers. Just at the present moment, the destroyers have the best of it—they have put one over on the builders—but that does not say that the good microbes are not working—and may yet win. You are young, buoyant, happy, hopeful, temperate in your habits—all of which gives you a better chance—if you will throw the weight of your influence on the side of the builders—there is a good chance of winning—I should think with your Irish blood you would enjoy the fight, Clay.”

The young doctor turned around suddenly and threw back his head, with an impatient gesture.

“I love a fight, Dr. Brander, but it has to be of something worth while. I have fought for the life of a man, a woman, a child, and I have fought joyfully—for life is sweet, and I desired it for these people, believing it to be a good gift. But in the fight you outline for me, I see nothing to fire man’s heart. I won’t fight for life if it means just breathing and scraping along at a poor, dying rate, cheating the undertaker of a nice little piece of legitimate business—I can’t grow enthusiastic over the prospect of always thinking about myself—and my rest—and my sleep—or my clothes—always looking for a draught or fleeing from the night air or a thunderstorm—never able to do a man’s job or a day’s work. I can’t do it, Dr. Brander, and you couldn’t do it. It’s a poor, miserable, dull existence, unhappy for me, and no service to any one.”

Two red spots burned in his cheeks, and the old doctor, noticing them, wished again that he had come to see him sooner.

“See here, Clay,” he said, sitting down again, with his hands spread out on his knees, “you exaggerate this thing. You do not think you are working unless you are slaving and owling around all hours of the night, setting bones and pulling teeth, or ushering into this wicked world sundry squalling babies who never asked to come, and do not like it now they are here. You have been as strong as an ox, and keen as a race-horse, now you have to slow up—you have to get out of this country before another winter, and when you come back in Spring you can go on with your patients—always with care.”

The young doctor surveyed him with curling lip.

“Resume my practice,” he said, “how simple. Send word ahead, I suppose, by circular letter—

“ ‘Dear Friends, I will be with you May 1st, to attend to your medical needs. Save your appendicitis and neuralgia and broken bones for me. Medical season opens for business May 1st, every one welcome’. Something like that ought to be sufficient to hold my practice. It has always seemed to me very inconsiderate for people to get sick in the winter, and certainly it is no time for infants to begin their career.... Now, see here, Dr. Brander, I appreciate all you say. I know why you are talking this way to me. It is out of the kindness of your heart—for you have a soft old heart behind all that professionalism. But it does not look reasonable to me that a man who has really lived, can ever drag along like you say. Who wants to live, anyway, beyond the time of usefulness? I don’t. I want to pass out like old Prince—you remember my good old roan pacer, do you?”

“That red-eyed old anarchist of yours that no one could harness but you?”

“That’s the one—as good a horse as ever breathed—misunderstood, that was all—well, he passed on, as the scientists say, last Fall, passed on in a blaze of glory too, but just how glorious his death was, I don’t believe I realized until tonight.

“How did it happen?”

“I had a thirty mile drive to see Mrs. Porter, at Pigeon Lake—and just as I was about to start, another message came that it was very urgent if her life was to be saved. Old Prince would not drive double—and my team was tired out. So I started with him alone. The snow came on when I was half way there, and that made the going bad—to add to the difficulties, a strong wind drove the blinding snow in our faces. But the old boy ploughed on like a wrecking engine—going out in a storm to clear the track. He knew all about it, I never had to urge him. The last mile was the worst—he fell once, but staggered to his feet and went on, on three legs.... When we got to the house, I knew it was all up with old Prince—he had made his last journey.

“But he was still living when I came out to see him four hours later. The men had put him in a box stall, and had done all they could, but his eyes were rolling, and his heart missed every fourth beat.

“The two little girls came out and cried over him, and told him he had saved their mother’s life, and tried to get him to eat sugar lumps ... and—right to the last there was the same proud look in his red eyes, and he gave me a sort of wink which let me know it was all right—he didn’t blame me or any one—and so I kissed him once, on the white star on his honest forehead, and I put my left arm around his head so he couldn’t see what was coming, and sent a bullet through his brain.

“We buried him on the hillside overlooking the lake, and the little girls put a slab up over him, which says:

“Prince of the house of Clay

Who saved our mother’s life,

Lies here in peace, and lives

In grateful memory in our hearts.”

There was a silence, in which each man’s mind went back to the one overwhelming thought—that bound them so close together.

Then the young doctor said slowly: “If what you say is true, I envy Prince—and would gladly change places with him.”

The old man recovered himself in a moment: “You take things too seriously, Clay,” he said quickly: “be glad you are not married. A wife and children clutter up a man’s affairs at a time like this—you are quite free from family ties, I believe?”

“Quite free,” the young man replied, “all my relatives live in the East, all able to look after themselves. I have no person depending on me—financially, I mean.”

“Marriage,” began the old doctor, in his most professional tone, as one who reads from a manuscript, “is one-fourth joy and three-fourths disappointment. There is no love strong enough to stand the grind of domestic life. Marriage would be highly successful were it not for the fearful bore of living together. Two houses, and a complete set of servants would make marriage practically free from disappointments. I think Saint Paul was right when he advised men to remain single if they had serious work to do. Women, the best of them, grow tiresome and double-chinned in time.”

The young doctor laughed his own big, hearty laugh, the laugh which his devoted patients said did them more good than his medicine.

“I like that,” he said, “a man with a forty-two waist measure, wearing an eighteen inch collar, finding fault with a woman’s double chin. You are not such a raving beauty yourself.”

The old man interrupted him:

“I do not need to be. I am a doctor, a prescriber of pills, a mender of bones, a plumber of pipes ... my work does not call for beauty. Beauty is an embarrassment to a doctor. You would be happier, young fellow, without that wavy brown hair and those big eyes of yours, with their long lashes. A man is built for work, like a truck. Gold and leather upholstering do not belong there. Women are different; it is their place in life to be beautiful, and when they fail in that, they fail entirely. They have no license to be fat, flabby double-chinned, flat-footed. It is not seemly, and of course you cannot tell how any of them may turn out. They are all pretty at sixteen. That is what makes marriage such a lottery.”

“I don’t agree with you at all,” said his companion, “it is absurd to expect a woman of fifty to have the slim grace of a girl of eighteen. My mother was a big woman, and I always thought her very beautiful. I think you have a pagan way of looking at marriage. Marriage is a mutual agreement, for mutual benefit and comfort, for sympathy and companionship. Family life develops the better side of human nature, and casts out selfishness. Many a man has found himself when he gets a wife, and in the caring for his children has thrown off the shackels of selfishness. People only live when they can forget themselves, for selfishness is death. Your a great doctor, Dr. Brander, but a poor philosopher.”

The older man smiled grimly.

“See here, Clay,” he said, “did you ever think of how nature fools us poor dupes? Nature, old Dame Nature, has one object, and that is to people the earth—and to this end she shapes all her plans. She makes women beautiful, graceful, attractive and gives them the instinct to dress in a way that will attract men. Makes them smaller and weaker than men, too, which also makes its appeal. Why, if I hadn’t watched my step, I’d been married a dozen times. These little frilled and powdered vixens have nearly got me.... If nature used half as much care in keeping people healthy and free from accidents, as she does in getting them here—it would be a happier world. But that is not nature’s concern—She leaves that to the doctors!”

“Well, how does the time go? Isn’t that the train whistle?”

“No hurry,” said Dr. Clay, rising, “it stops at the water-tank, and that whistle is for the hill.”

They walked over to the station in silence, and stood watching the red eye that came gliding through the moonlit valley. The train seemed to be slipping in to the station without a sound, in the hope that no one would notice how late it was.

“Come up and see me, Clay,” said the old man kindly. “I want to give you a thorough examination—and I will expect you in a week—we’ll talk things over, and see what is best. You have my bag, don’t bother coming on—all right then—here’s a double seat—so I can stretch out—though it’s hardly worth while for an hour. Goodbye Clay, remember all I told you!”

When the doctor went back to his office, he sat long in his chair in front of the fire, and thought. The place was the same—the cheerful fire—the rows of books—the Fathers of Confederation picture on the wall—and his college group. Everything was the same as it had been—only himself. Everything in the room was strong, durable, almost everlasting, able to resist time and wear. He was the only perishable thing, it seemed.

He wondered how people act when confronted by the ruin of their hopes. Do they rave and curse and cry aloud? He could not think clearly—his mind seemed to avoid the real issue and refuse to strike on the sore place, and he thought of all sorts of other things.

The permanence—the dreadful permanence of everything in the room seemed to oppress him. “Man is mortal,” he said, “his possessions outlive him, every last one of these things is more durable than I am.” The gray wall of the office—so strong and lasting—what chance had an army of microbes against it—the heavy front door, with its cherry panels and brass fittings, had no fear of draughts or cold. It had limitless resistance. The stocky stove, on its four squat legs, could hold its own and snap its fingers at time. They were all so arrogantly indestructible, so fearfully permanent—they had no sympathy, no common meeting ground with him.

A knock sounded on the door, and when he opened it, the station agent was there, with a long box in his hand.

“It’s marked ‘Rush,’ so I thought I had better shoot it over to you, Doc,” he said.

“Thanks, old man,” the Doctor said mechanically, and put the box down on the table. On a white label, in bright red letters, stood out the word ‘Perishable.’

The word struck him like a blow between the eyes. “Perishable!” Then here was something to which he might feel akin. He opened the box, with detached interest. A sweet breath of roses proclaimed the contents. He had forgotten about sending for them until now—Pearl’s roses for this day—nineteen American Beauties!

He carefully unpacked the wrapping, and held up the sheaf of loveliness, and just for one moment had the thrill of joy that beauty had always brought to him. Pearl’s roses! The roses, with which he had hoped to say what was in his heart—here they were, in all their exquisite loveliness, and ready to carry the words of love and hope and tenderness—but now ... he had nothing to say ... love and marriage were not for him!

He sat down heavily, beside the table over which the roses lay scattered, spilling their perfume in the room.

He fingered them lovingly, smoothing their velvety petals with a tender hand, while his mind sought in vain to readjust itself to the change the last two hours had brought.

He turned again to the fire, which glowed with blue and purple lights behind the windows of isinglass, curling and flaming and twisting, with fascinating brilliance. Long he sat, watching it, while the sounds outside in the street grew less and less, and at last when he went to the window, he found the street in darkness and in silence. The moon had set, and his watch told him it was two o’clock.

The wind whimpered in the chimney like a lonesome puppy, rising and falling, cying out and swelling with eerie rhythm; a soft spring wind, he knew it was, that seemed to catch its breath like a thing in pain.

Looking again at the roses, he noticed that the leaves were drooping. He hastily went into the dispensary and brought out two graduates filled with water to put them in; but when he lifted them—he saw, with poignant pain—they were gone past helping—they were frost-bitten.

Then it was that he gathered them in his arms, with sudden passion, and as he sat through the long night, he held them closely to him, for kin of his they surely were—these frosted roses, on whose fragrant young hearts the blight had so prematurely fallen!