A FAMOUS PRACTITIONER
But dere's wan man got hees han' full t'roo ev'ry kin' of wedder,
An' he's never sure of not'ing but work an' work alway--
Dat's de man dey call de doctor, when you ketch heem on de contree,
An' he's only man I know--me, don't get no holiday.
--WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
When the new doctor's horse arrived, and he began to drive about the
country, even the outrageous conduct of Sandy McQuarry's new watchman,
and the antics of the orphans, became matters of secondary interest to
the village. When he drove away of a morning, every one ran across to
every one else's house to debate the question as to whether he had gone
to see a patient or only to exercise his horse. Of course, when some
one came for him the problem was solved; but sometimes he went off on
an independent excursion, and that was always puzzling. Miss Weir had
once known a doctor who used to drive like mad all over the country,
with his satchel set up on the seat, where every one could see it, and
never go to see one solitary patient for weeks at a time. Ella Anne
Long was sure the new doctor wasn't that kind; and anyway, Davy Munn
had told Jean Cameron that the doctor often told him, when he drove
away, that he was just going to give his horse some exercise.
Of course, it was no use asking Mrs. Munn. As usual, she "didn't
know." Even when some one called for the doctor, in his absence, and
had every legitimate right to be apprised of his whereabouts, it was
with the greatest difficulty that any hint of it could be extracted
from his housekeeper. She always spoke in broad generalities. Yes, he
was gone away. To see a patient? Well, likely. Mrs. Munn couldn't
tell. Where? Oh, out in the country. It might be up Glenoro way, or
down by Lake Simcoe. She was not sure, now, but that she had seen him
drive out east, or was it west? She hadn't remembered right. When
would he be back? How could she tell? She didn't know how fast he was
going to drive, that is, if he was driving at all. Mebby he was
walking. People knew Mrs. Munn of old, and did not waste much time on
her. They passed the office door and went on to the stable, where
information, though often highly colored, and tinged with the product
of David's imagination, was at least easily procured.
Granny Long was the one reliable source of supply. As soon as the
doctor drove out of the gate the telescope was turned upon him, and
bulletins as to his movements issued at various intervals. He was
sighted turning the corner at Cameron's Crossing, and was likely going
down to see old Mrs. McKitterick; or he had turned around at Long John
McLeod's old clearing, and would be back in fifteen minutes, maybe
less, at the rate he was going; so it was only a drive. And one
morning, when he started off early and drove so swiftly down the Lake
Simcoe road that every one was sure some one must be dying, public
opinion was much relieved when Granny Long sent Ella Anne out with the
news that it wasn't a patient, after all, but that the doctor had just
been down to Lake Simcoe, and was coming back. And she could not be
quite sure yet, but his hair looked damp and shiny, and she suspected
he had been in swimming; she could tell for certain in a few minutes.
And while the village discussed him, Dr. Allen drove up and down the
Oro hills to exercise his horse, and wished with all his heart that he
had more to do. One evening, when time was hanging more heavily than
usual on his hands, he went for a stroll down the village street. As
he passed out to the gate Davy Munn was mowing the lawn. His groom's
assiduous attention to this one branch of industry, to the exclusion of
all other labor, still remained a mystery. "He's got a dark-blue
necktie on this time," was the whispered remark made in Granny Long's
bedroom, "and it looks as if he was growing a mustache. He's comin'
this direction."
"Sakes alive! I wonder if he's comin' here!" cried Ella Anne's mother,
all in a flutter.
Ella Anne flew down the stairs. She softly opened the front door, and
seating herself at the organ, pulled out all the stops. Miss Long was
organist in the church, and had the loudest voice in the township of
Oro. She had a favorite solo, which she had sung at three tea-meetings
the winter before.
"_Oh, meet me! Oh, meet me!
When you hear the first whip-poor-will's song!_"
Here was a splendid chance to let the new doctor hear her sing. As the
musical invitation came pouring through the Longs' parlor door, the
innocent cause of it stopped for an instant on the unsteady sidewalk,
overcome by the deluge of song. Then, full of alarm, he turned off the
street, and made his escape up the willow-bordered path that ran along
the edge of the mill-pond, where the sound of the waterfall, as it
poured in a silvery cascade beneath the bridge, alone broke the
silence. Looking back past the bridge, Gilbert caught a glimpse of the
valley, with its fairy windings, where he had met his first patient and
the princess in the milkmaid costume. The pond lay like a colored
mirror in its frame of feathery willows. As he advanced the trees
disappeared, and his footfall was muffled in the soft sawdust. The
sweet, clean scent of the newly sawn lumber mingled with the cool
breath of the water.
The big mill, so noisy and busy in the daytime, was silent and
deserted, except for the watchman. He was seated in the wide doorway
of the engine-room. Behind him, in the warm darkness, shone a red line
from beneath the furnace door. Gilbert had not seen him since his
illness, and was struck with the man's expression of utter dejection.
"Good-evening," said the young doctor cordially, stopping in his walk.
The man looked up with a curt response.
"I was just strolling about, viewing things," continued Gilbert. "You
are night watchman here now, I believe?"
"Yes."
"I hope you are feeling better?"
The man looked up into the speaker's face, and seemed to recognize him.
"You are the doctor?" he said, half inquiringly.
"Yes. I came to Elmbrook lately, like yourself. My name is
Allen--Gilbert Allen."
"Allen!" repeated the dark man. He arose, and gave the other a
searching look. "Are you the Gilbert Allen who saved the life of a man
once in Nelson Mills?"
"Yes," answered Gilbert, surprised; "that is, I helped to, somewhat.
Do you know----"
The man interrupted with a harsh laugh, such as had startled the
minister. It was as unmirthful as a cry of pain. "Yes, I know more
than you think. I know _you_, Gilbert Allen!" His voice was harsh
with scorn. "Many, many a time I've heard your name--spoken with the
highest praise--oh, the very highest. But you are like all the rest of
the world. You would let your best friend starve. Selfishness and
dishonesty!" he cried, clenching his hands, "selfishness and
dishonesty! Those are the commonest things in this world--the only
things!"
He picked up his lantern, and turning his back on his astonished
visitor, disappeared into the dark recess of the engine-room.
The young doctor stood staring after him, undecided whether to follow
or not. Was the man mad? There was a wild gleam in his eye, but
Gilbert's professional knowledge told him it was rather a gleam of
anguish than insanity. He took a step forward, then turned and walked
away, wondering, and hotly indignant. He was filled with rage that any
man should dare to speak to him so, and wished with all his heart that
John McIntyre's hair had not been so white, nor his shoulders so
stooped and thin.
But with his amazement and indignation there was struggling a new
feeling. The May night was cool, but he felt suffocatingly hot. He
shrugged his shoulders. Nonsense! The man certainly was mad. How
could any sane person accuse him of leaving his best friend to starve?
And yet--
A figure in white was coming down the village street. It was the
princess of the ravine. She was dressed as suited her now, in a long,
white, filmy gown, which she held up daintily. She wore no hat, and
the bronze hair crowning her shapely head caught the sunset light and
shone like gold.
She spoke to him, with a stately sweetness that recognized their
previous acquaintance, but invited no further advance. The deep,
searching look in her eyes, the same as in her old uncle's, made
Gilbert feel uncomfortable. It seemed as if she knew, and every one
knew, that he had been guilty of "selfishness and dishonesty."
He did not worry long over the strange man and his stranger accusation,
for his fortune took a sudden happy turn.
Down on the Lake Simcoe road, about a couple of miles below the
village, lived old Mrs. McKitterick, the mother of Conductor Lauchie.
For years she had been an invalid, and a great sufferer, and poor
Lauchie had spent half his earnings on doctors' bills; but still she
lay in her bed weary month after weary month. They called in the new
doctor, and he tried a new form of treatment, a simple operation, and
before a month was gone the old lady walked to the barnyard gate and
waved her shawl at Lauchie's train as it came puffing out of the swamp.
And the conductor blew her such a joyous salute that folks thought
there must be an accident, and Jake Sawyer stopped his mill and ran up
the track to see if any of the orphans had been run over.
The real cause of the uproar was soon proclaimed from Long's upstairs,
and with it went ringing over the countryside the fame of the new
doctor.
Gilbert awoke one morning to find himself the most important man in the
township of Oro, and the busiest. Patients came from all directions,
and Speed, his trim little mare, went flying over the hills and dales
as though she, too, were heartily glad that work had begun. Lauchie
McKitterick advertised him at every station along the line, and when
the doctor wanted to go anywhere on the train Davy Munn needed only to
brandish his mother's sunbonnet from the window of the stable loft, and
the Lakeview and Simcoe express stopped just below his back gate. He
was soon so busy that Granny Long had to give up her afternoon nap to
keep track of his swift movements. There was always something doing in
the village, too. There was often an accident in the mill, and there
was always an accident at Jake Sawyer's. The eldest orphan fell into
the mill-pond, and was nearly drowned; the twins took a dose of Paris
green just to see if it really would turn their hair into grass; and
Joey ate all the early green apples off a Duchess tree. Then there was
Granny Long's neuralgia and Uncle Hughie Cameron's rheumatism; and Mrs.
Winters declared she believed folks got sick on purpose, for the sake
of calling the doctor in.
There was some shadow of truth in this, for as the young man came and
went among the people's homes their admiration for his skill was soon
mingled with a warmer feeling. He had such a "takin' way" with him,
old Granny Long declared, that a body just couldn't help being glad to
see him; and old Mrs. McKitterick said the sight of his face was like a
dose of medicine, a compliment the young doctor accepted gratefully in
its true meaning. Even Mrs. Winters, and all the other famous nurses
of the district, who, over an afternoon cup of tea, would give him full
instructions upon how to treat this case and that, agreed that the
doctor was generally right. And then, though he always had his own way
in the end, he took their advice with such good humor, and never
scoffed, the way old Dr. Williams did. He would walk into the house
and order things in a way that commanded the admiration of even the
Duke of Wellington. He scolded the mothers roundly whenever he was
called to see a sick baby. He denounced pork and pickles as a child's
diet, and made such a fuss about air-tight bedrooms that Jake Sawyer,
who, in company with his wife, lived in terror lest a draught of night
air should blow on the orphans' precious heads, was forced into the
patient complaint that though the doctor was a fine young man, and
their eldest was just crazy over him, still he believed, if he had his
way, he'd turn folks out of house and home, to live in the road, like
tinkers.
The busier Gilbert became the happier he grew. Elmbrook stood, in the
center of a rich agricultural district, his patients were mostly
wealthy farmers, and he began to feel that he was not so far from his
ambition, after all. He would be well enough off at the end of two
years to set up a city practice and make a home for Rosalie.
Among the doctor's first social appearances was tea at the manse, where
he met again the beautiful Miss Cameron. She came with her brother
Malcolm, who was Gilbert's assistant since he had returned from
college. When he was not too busy in the fields, or in dancing
attendance on Marjorie Scott, the young man rendered the doctor
considerable help.
It was a warm evening, and when tea was finished the company sat out on
the veranda. The manse and the church were in full view of the
village, half a mile distant, and a fine target for the telescope, as
the minister's wife well knew. But here they were screened from
observation by the vines.
"You have never heard Miss Cameron sing, have you, Dr. Allen?" asked
the minister's wife. "Then there's a treat in store for you. Run in
and give us a song, Elsie, dear."
Gilbert murmured something polite. He was quite sure Miss Cameron's
singing would be very sweet and pretty, like herself; but he still had
tingling recollections of the whip-poor-will song, and his anxiety to
hear more Elmbrook talent was only mild.
The girl arose from the steps and returned to the twilight of the
parlor. "Give us 'Abide with me,' Elsie," called the minister, leaning
back in his worn armchair with a contented sigh.
"That's the one father always asks for," said his wife, with a smile.
"He says he'd rather hear your Elsie sing that, Malcolm, than listen to
the best minister in Canada preach."
Young Malcolm turned reluctantly. He was seated on the bottom step,
engaged in an absorbing conversation with the minister's eldest
daughter, and did not like to be interrupted; but he knew better than
to neglect Marjorie's mother.
"Yes, Elsie whoops it up not so badly, sometimes," he remarked with
brotherly candor not unmixed with pride. "I like to hear her, all
right, when she's singing an out-and-out song that's got a head and
tail to it. But when she gets on to those hee-ha, hee-ha Italian
fireworks things, away up in G, I generally cut for the barn."
"Hush!" said the minister gently. The first notes of the prelude came
floating out of the dusk, and then, soft and sweet, and uttered with a
perfect enunciation, the words:
"_Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me!_"
The voice was pure and full, and as clear as a bird's; but there was
something deeper in it than mere beauty, some subtle, compelling
quality that made the tears rise unbidden, and that forced the heart to
join in the prayer it uttered.
No one moved until the last line rang out triumphantly.
"In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!"
When she had finished, Gilbert spoke no word of admiration. It had
been so much better than he had dreamed that words seemed inadequate.
She sang again and again; now the song was gay, now grave, and she
ended with an ecstatic spring song that had in it the sparkle of the
stream, the song of the robin, and all the glorious delight of earth's
resurrection.
When she came out to them again and her audience expressed their
pleasure, Gilbert looked at her with a sharp feeling of pity. They had
enjoyed her singing, no doubt, but they had no idea how wonderful it
was. And to be able to sing like that, and not be appreciated, was
tragic.
"I suppose you are going back to Toronto to study, next autumn?" he
said, when she was seated again on the veranda steps.
"No, I think not," she said, with what seemed to him shocking
indifference. "Not for some years at least, if ever."
"Why--you--you are surely not going to give up studying music!" he
cried bluntly. "You, with a voice like that!"
His tone was unconsciously flattering. The girl smiled gratefully.
She looked at him very gravely, as though about to speak, when she
caught her brother's eye upon her, and paused with an embarrassed air.
"That's just what we're all saying to her, doctor," he said. "She
ought to go, but she won't."
"Oh, I may, some time," she said lightly, "but I have had enough
lessons for a while. Now, Marjorie, aren't you going to play for us?"
Gilbert went home, wondering over this strange young woman, and feeling
toward her a strong impatience. Either she did not know the magnitude
of the talent she possessed, or she was wofully lacking in ambition.
With that voice, and a little spirit, there was nothing she might not
accomplish; while here she was, content to feed chickens, and carry
eggs to the corner store, with the placid assurance that she "had had
enough lessons for a while." If she had not been so stately, he felt
he would like to shake her.
He did not meet her again for some time; for even when he found leisure
to attend a social gathering, she was seldom present. But he was on
the lookout for her. He determined that the next time he met her he
would give her some much-needed advice. She ought to be stirred up.
These country folk had no ambition.
Her brother seemed to have no lack of it, he discovered. He took young
Malcolm with him to see a patient occasionally, and on one long drive
the boy confided in him something of the struggle it had been to give
them all an education. It was a lucky thing that Elsie didn't want to
go on with her music, he said, for the expense of her training would be
so great that both he and Jean would have to stay home for some years,
and Jean was dying to go to the high school in the fall. Both Uncle
Hughie and mother had declared that Elsie must have first chance, but
Elsie didn't want to go, and it certainly was lucky, though they were
all sorry, of course, that she wasn't going on.
Gilbert wondered a little over the lad's remarks, but forgot them until
the next occasion when he met Miss Cameron.
He had been up to see a patient among the Glenoro hills, and was
driving homeward. The road was a narrow, lonely one, winding here and
there through the dense wood. On either side the trees and underbrush
made a towering green wall. Through it the eye could catch occasional
glimpses of the flower-spangled earth, or a vista of splendid trunks
with the sunlight making golden splashes on their spreading boughs.
Gilbert pulled up Speed and drove slowly. Her hoofs made but a
smothered pad, pad in the soft leaf-mold. The air was cool, and laden
with the delicious scents of moss and bracken and leaf-strewn earth.
Far away in the green depths a whitethroat was sending forth his long,
clear, silvery call, in endless praise of "Canada! Canada! Canada!"
As Gilbert turned a curve in the road a figure appeared ahead, a figure
that seemed to add the finishing touch to the almost perfect scene--a
girl, her arms full of marigolds, walking along the flower-bordered
pathway.
She wore a pale-green gown, her bronze hair was shaded by a big straw
hat, and she seemed a harmonious part of the gold-and-green picture of
the summer woods.
The young doctor drew up at her side. She was a little pale and
weary-looking from her long, hot walk, and she gladly accepted his
invitation to ride. Jim had needed another man for the haying, she
said, and she was the only one who could be spared to go and seek one;
she was very fortunate to get a ride home.
As Gilbert helped her into his buggy he looked at her wonderingly. Was
she really content with her homely tasks, or could it be possible that
she was making this sacrifice voluntarily?
"Can you be quite content to settle down here in Elmbrook, when you
might be making fame for yourself in a big city?" he asked. "I don't
believe you realize that you might some day move throngs with your
voice."
She smiled, with a tinge of sadness. "Well, you see, I am quite sure
of my work here," she said half playfully, "and one could never be
certain of a steady supply of 'moved throngs.'"
"You could," he cried earnestly. "You are wasting your talents."
She shook her head. "It is better to waste one's talents than
something better."
"What, for instance?"
"One's life."
"How could it be better employed, in your case, than by giving the
world your voice? You need to be more ambitious," he added bluntly.
She turned upon him that steady, scrutinizing glance that, from the
first, had made him conscious of inner unworthiness. Her eyes were
bright, and had lost the tired look; the cool breeze had brought back
the rose-leaf tints to her face, and had blown one bronze curl across
her forehead.
"You ought to hear Uncle Hughie on that subject," she said, with
apparent irrelevance. "He is always 'rastlin'' out some problem for
other people. One cannot live with him and be in doubt of one's duty."
"And he has taught you that it is your duty to remain at home?"
"Perhaps," she said, looking away into the mass of greenery by the
roadside. It was evident that she did not care to pursue the subject.
"Duty is generally the thing a fellow doesn't want to do," he remarked,
by way of making the conversation less personal.
"It's Uncle Hughie's pet hobby. He lost the chance of a college
education, and many other privileges, through adhering to it, and says
he has never regretted his action for a moment."
Gilbert was silent. The unbelievable thing must be true, then. This
girl was sacrificing her own chance of advancement for the sake of her
brother and sister. He looked at her with a feeling of reverence. To
give up so much was commendable, but to give it up quietly, without a
murmur, without even the chance of commendation--that was splendid.
"'You are in line with the universe,'" he quoted.
She glanced at him as if in alarm, and quickly changed the subject.
Gilbert understood; he was tacitly informed that her sacrifice was to
remain a secret.
He stifled a sigh. He could not help remembering, just then, that he
had acted quite a different part when duty had called to one path, and
ambition and pleasure to another. He had merely postponed the duty, of
course; that was not really shirking it, for he intended to perform it
to the last jot. Nevertheless, he wished that it had been done years
ago; and then he recalled the words of the dark watchman, and felt
himself grow hot again.
They turned another curve, and came out of the cool, green silence into
the hard, white, sunlit road that ran straight up to Elmbrook.
"I wonder if the telescope's on us!" cried the doctor, with a boyish
desire to get away from his uncomfortable reflections. He checked
himself, abashed, and glanced at his companion. Her stately gravity
made him half afraid of her. He thought of Rosalie's irresistible
gaiety, and longed for her radiant companionship. To his surprise,
Miss Cameron's eyes twinkled. Apparently, she had a sense of humor,
after all.
"That shows how thoroughly un-Elmbrooked you still remain. It's been
resting in the northeast window ever since you drove away, and Granny
Long has been wheeled in there to watch for your return." Gilbert felt
vastly more at his ease.
"You make me feel as if I were a new constellation."
"Or a rising star--I hope you are."
"Thank you. When you get to be the second Albani----"
"And you the greatest consulting physician in Canada----"
"Of course I shall remember that you encouraged me."
"It isn't really a joke, you know," she said with sweet seriousness.
"I don't think--I know you don't realize how important you are in the
eyes of the people about you. It is an"--her eyes were very grave--"an
exacting position, Dr. Allen."
They had reached her gate, and Gilbert was assisting her to alight. He
understood. She was paying him a delicate compliment, and with it was
the hint that he must line up to the Elmbrook ideal.
"I feel overcome with humiliation at the thought," he said, standing
before her, hat in hand, "when I consider my shortcomings."
She shook her head. "You ought to be glad. One can scarcely help
attaining to an ideal that is set before one so persistently every day."
Gilbert drove away humbled. This girl, with her splendid talent, had
quietly laid aside her chance of a great career because the road to
fame deviated from the path of duty. And she had done it without a
word or hint of martyrdom. And he--what had he done? How much thought
had he spent in the past ten years on the man who had given him his
chance in life? Suppose he had been to him all that he should have
been? Then he would have lost Rosalie and the two years abroad that
had brought him nearer her social level. Gilbert saw that there had
never been a moment when he had met the issue squarely. He had merely
put it aside, saying "Next year, next year." Well, what did it matter,
anyway? Martin was not in want. If he had needed the money it would
have been quite different; and when the time came he was going to do
something splendid for him. And he was doing so well now that the time
was not far off. But Gilbert was honest with himself. He knew well
that when the two years' work which he had laid out for himself in this
little backward place were ended it was not the neglected duty he would
consider, but a city practice, and a fine home worthy of Rosalie. For
the first time in his life the prospect brought him no pleasure.