IN WHICH DOCTOR HOYLE SPEAKS HIS MIND
Doctor Hoyle sat in his office staring straight before him, not as if he
were looking at David Thryng, who sat in range of his vision, but as if
seeing beyond him into some other time and place. David had been
speaking, but now they both were silent, and the young man wondered if
his old friend had really been paying attention to his words or not.
"Well, Doctor," he said at last.
"Well, David."
"You don't seem satisfied. Is it with my condition?"
"Your condition? No, no, no! It's not your condition. Yes, yes--fine,
fine. I never saw such a marvellous change in my life, never!"
David smiled over the old doctor's stammer of enthusiasm. It was as if
his thoughts, fertile and vehement, and the feelings of his great, warm
heart welled up within him, and, trying to burst forth all at once,
tumbled over themselves, unable to secure words rapidly enough in which
to give themselves utterance.
"Then why so silent and dubious?"
"Why--why--y--young man, I wasn't thinking anything about you just
then." And again David laughed, while his wiry old friend jumped up and
walked rapidly and restlessly about the small apartment and laughed in
sympathy. "It's not--not--"
"I know." David grew instantly sober again. "Of course the little chap's
case is serious--very--or I would not have brought him to you."
"Oh, no, no, I'm not thinking of Adam, bless you, no." The doctor always
called his little namesake Adam. "I'm thinking of her--the little girl
you left behind you. Yes--yes. Of her."
"She's not so little now, Doctor; she's tall--tall enough to be
beautiful."
"I remember her,--slight--slight little creature, all eyes and hair, all
soul and mind. Now what are you going to do with her, eh?"
"What is she going to do with me, rather! I'll go back to her as soon as
I dare leave the boy."
"But, man alive! what--what are--you can't live down there all your
days. It's to be life and work for you, sir, and what are you going to
do with her, I say?"
"I'll bring her here with me. She'll come."
"Of course you'll bring her here with you, and you--you'll have plenty
of friends. Maybe they'll appreciate her, and maybe they won't; maybe
they won't, I say; Understand? And she'll c--come. Oh, yes, she'll come!
she'll do whatever you say, and presently she'll break her heart and die
for you. She'll never say a word, but that's what she'll do."
"Why, Doctor!" cried David, appalled. "I love her as my own life--my
very soul."
"Of--of course. That goes without saying. We all do, we men, but
we--damn it all! Do you suppose I've lived all these years and not seen?
Why--we think of ourselves first every time. D--don't we, though?
Rather!"
"But selfish as we are, we can love--a man can, if he sets himself to it
honestly,--love a woman and make her happy, even without the
appreciation of others, in spite of environment,--everything. It's the
destiny of women to love us, thank God. She would have been doomed
surely to die if she had married the one who wanted her first--or to
live a life for her worse than death."
"Oh, Lord bless you, boy, yes. It's a woman's destiny. I'm an old fool.
There--there's my own little girl, she's m--married and gone--gone to
live in England. They will do it--the women will. Come, we'll go see
Adam."
The doctor sprang up, brushed his hand across his eyes, and caught up a
battered silk hat. He turned it about and looked at it ruefully, with a
quizzical smile playing about the corners of his eyes. "Remember that
hat?" he asked.
"Well do I remember it. You've driven many a mile in many a rainstorm
by my side under that hat! When you're done with it, leave it to me in
your will. I have a fancy for it. Will you?"
"Here, take it--take it. I'm done with it. Mary scolds me every day
about it. No p--peace in life because of it. Here's a new one I bought
the other day--good one--good enough."
He lifted a box which had fallen from his cluttered office table, and
took from it a new hat which had evidently not been unpacked before. He
tried it on his head, turned it about and about, took it off and gazed
at it within and without, then hastily tossed it aside and, snatching
his old one from David put it on his head, and they started off.
Hoyle had been placed in a small ward where were only two other little
beds, both occupied, with one nurse to attend on the three patients. One
of them had broken his leg and had to lie in a cast, and the other was
convalescing from fever, but both were well enough to be companionable
with the lonely little Southerner. Hoyle's face beamed upon David as he
bent over him.
"I kin make pi'chers whilst I'm a-lyin' here," he cried ecstatically.
"That thar lady, she 'lows me to make 'em. She 'lows mine're good uns."
David glanced at the young woman indicated. She was pleasant-faced and
rosy, and looked practical and good.
"He's such an odd little chap," she said.
"What be that--odd? Does hit mean this 'er lump on my back?" He pulled
David down and whispered the question in his ear.
"No, no. She only means that you're a dear, queer little chap."
"What be I quare fer?"
"What are all these drawings? Tell us what they mean."
"This'n, hit's the ocean, an' that thar, hit's a steamship sailin' on
th' ocean, like you done tol' me about. An' this'n, hit's our house an'
here's whar ol' Pete bides at; an' this'n's ol' Pete kickin' out like he
hated somethin' like he does when we give Frale's colt his corn first."
The other small boys from their beds laughed out merrily and strained
their necks to see. "These're theirn. I made this'n fer him an' this'n
fer him."
He tossed the pictures feebly toward them, and they fluttered to the
floor. David gathered them up and gave them to their respective owners.
The old doctor stood beside the cot and looked down on the little
artist. His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled.
"Which one is y--yours?" he asked.
"I keep this'n with the sea--an'--here, I made this'n fer you." He
paused, and selected carefully among the pile of papers under his hand.
"You reckon you kin tell what 'tis?"
The doctor took the paper and regarded it gravely a moment, then lifted
his eyebrows and made grimaces of wonderment until the three patients in
the three little beds were in gales of laughter. At last he said:--
"It's a pile of s--sausages."
"Hit hain't no sausages. Hit's jest a straight, cl'ar pi'cher of a
house, an' hit's your house, too, whar brothah David lives at. See?
Thar's the winder, an' the other winder hit's on t'othah side whar you
can't see hit."
The doctor turned the paper over and regarded it a moment. "Show me the
window. I--I see no window on the other side."
Again the three little invalids laughed uproariously at their visitor.
David smilingly looked on. How often had he seen the delightful old man
amuse himself thus with the children! He would contort his mobile face
into all the varying expressions of wonder and dismay, of terror or
stupefaction, and his entrance to the children's ward was always greeted
with outcries of delight, when the little ones were well enough to allow
of such freedom.
"Haven't you one to send to your sister?" asked David, stooping low to
the child and speaking quietly. The boy's face lighted with a radiant
smile that caused the old man to stand regarding him more intently.
"We'll sen' her this'n of the sea. You reckon hit looks like the ocean
whar the ships go a-sailin' to t'othah side o' the world?" He held it in
his slender fingers and eyed it critically.
"How did you come to try to make a picture of the sea when you never saw
it?"
"Do' know. I feel like I done seed th' ocean when I'm settin' thar on
the rock an' them white, big clouds go a-sailin' far--far, like they're
goin' to anothah world an' hain't quite touchin' this'n."
"I wondered why you had your ship so high above the sea."
"I don't guess hit's a very good'n," said the child, ruefully, clinging
to the scrap of paper with reluctant grasp. "You reckon she'd keer fer
this'n?"
"I reckon she'd care for anything you made. Give it to me, and I'll send
it to her."
"She tol' me the sea, hit war blue, an' I can't make hit right blue an'
soft like she said. That thar blue pencil, hit's too slick. I can't make
hit stay on the papah."
"What are these mounds here on either side of the sea?"
"Them's mountains."
"But why did you put mountains in the sea?" The boy looked with wide
eyes dreamily past the two men so attentively regarding him.
"I--I reckon I jes' put 'em thar fer to look like the sea hit war on the
world. I don't guess the'd be no ocean nor no world 'thout the' war
mountains fer to hold everything whar hit belongs at."
"I shall bring you a box of paints to-morrow if the nurse will allow you
to have them. I'll provide an oilcloth to spread around so he won't
throw paint over your nice clean bed," he said to the pleasant-faced
young woman.
"That's all right, Doctor," she said.
"Then you can make the blue stay on, and you can make the ocean with
real water, and real blue for the sky and the sea."
The child's eyes glowed. He pulled David down and held him with his arm
about his neck, and whispered in his ear, and what he said was:--
"When they're a-pullin' on me to git my hade straight an' my back right,
I jes' think 'bout the far--far-away sea, with the ships a-sailin' an'
how hit look, an' hit don't hurt so much. I kin b'ar hit a heap bettah.
When you comin' back, brothah David?"
"Does it hurt you very much, Hoyle?"
"I reckon hit have to hurt," said the child, with fatalistic
resignation. "I don't guess he'd hurt me 'thout he had to." He released
David slowly, then pulled him down again. "Don't tell him I 'lowed hit
hurted me. I reckon he'd ruthah hurt hisself if he could do me right
that-a-way. You guess I--I'm goin' to git shet o' the misery some day?"
"That's what we're trying for, my brave little brother," and the two
physicians bade the small patients good-by and walked out upon the
street.