GATHERING CLOUDS
Despite Smiles' ingenuous proffer of a sister's affection, Donald was
troubled with an unreasonable dissatisfaction over the course which the
events of the morning had taken, and he knew that it was unreasonable,
which made it worse. Now he suddenly announced that he guessed he would
not wait until the afternoon before going down to Fayville to get his
small amount of baggage.
The girl was troubled, also, without knowing just why, and she watched
his departure with an unhappy feeling that somehow the changes which the
year had made in both their lives had raised a misty barrier between
them--intangible, but not easily to be swept away. Furthermore, young as
she was, she intuitively sensed that hers was the necessity of
reconstructing their friendship on a new foundation, because she was a
woman. The man could not do it.
Meanwhile Donald performed his downward journey with none of the
lightness of heart which makes a long walk a pleasure, rather than a
task. Going down the wooded descent, where the dew still lay wet beneath
the heaviest thickets, was not so bad; but, when he had obtained his
grip and gun, and started on the back trail, his discomforts commenced.
As the main street of the little village changed its character, first to
a road and then a cart path through the fields, it grew deep with dust,
and, although no air stirred, it seemed to rise, as water does by
capillary attraction, until his clothing was saturated and his mouth and
nose overlaid with a film of it. Overhead the sky burned, and from the
brown fields, which stretched to the wooded base of the mountain, heat
waves rose as though the dry earth were panting with visible breath. An
insect chirped half-heartedly in the grass, and then left off as though
the effort were too great, and a small striped snake leisurely wove a
sinuous path through the dust ahead of him, and vanished with a faint
hiss.
It was better when he struck the woods, for there was shade; but the air
was more sultry and the added exertion of climbing started the
perspiration and turned the coating of dust to sticky grime. Still the
breeze delayed, and the fragrant odors of the woods were cloying. His
luggage grew heavier and yet more heavy; his arm and back began to ache
painfully.
When physical discomfort is accompanied by morose introspection, the
result is certain to be unpleasant, and Donald's thoughts were in dismal
grays and browns, which ill-matched the radiant colors of external
nature.
Certainly Smiles was not to blame, he thought, as he trudged up and up.
The fact still remained that they lived on utterly different planes, and
that he had not the slightest idea of falling in love with her, or, even
mentally, violating his pledge to Marion. Pshaw, she was nothing but a
child! It was foolish, absurdly so, yet somehow he felt that his world
was out of joint, and, since he could not, or would not, determine just
what the trouble was, he could not take active measures to bring about a
readjustment.
With a conscious effort of his will he put the mountain child out of his
thoughts, and attempted to analyze his real feelings for the city girl,
to whom he was betrothed. He could assign no reason to the vague, but
persistent, feeling which frequently possessed him, when he was apart
from her, that she was not his natural mate. Her poise and reserve,
which sometimes irritated him, he knew to be really virtues, in a way as
desirable as they were rare in women, even of her class; her unusual
beauty fully satisfied his eye; she was a reigning queen, the desired of
many men and he had won her, although he hesitated a little over the
word "won." Finally, he was certain that she loved him, after her
fashion. Why should he, a man as reserved as he was, and one who had
little time to spend on the romantic embellishments of life, ask for
more? Yet there was mute rebellion in the depths of his heart, and even
the memory of that milestone night, eight months before, when the spirit
of Christmastide had added its spell to the influences of life-long
propinquity, and they had, almost without spoken words, crossed the
border and pledged themselves to one another, brought no thrill.
"I _know_ that she is a wonderful woman, and a real beauty," mused
Donald, half aloud. "The trouble must be ... yes, _is_, with me. She's
too wonderful for my simple tastes; that's the truth, as I told Ethel.
Oh, well, perhaps I can learn to live up to her ... but I hate this
society stuff."
* * * * *
Donald's return to the cabin, weary and uncomfortable in body and mind,
found Big Jerry sitting heavily in a chair, with Smiles hovering about,
and, from the expression on the face of each, he sensed at once that
something was wrong. The old man was saying, somewhat laboriously, "Hit
don't pain me ... much, Rose, gal. Hit haint nothin' ... ter mention.
I'll jest set still hyar erwhile, an' ..."
As the girl caught sight of Donald's big form in the doorway, her face
brightened momentarily; but it clouded again with swift pain when he
touched his heart with a significant gesture, accompanied by a
questioning look. She nodded, then said aloud, "Here's our Doctor Mac
back ergin, grandpappy. I reckon he kin do somethin' fer ter help ye."
The newcomer attempted a cheery laugh, and said, "Well, I'm not much
good unless we can turn Time's flight backward, and make him a child
again temporarily. Kiddies are my specialty, you know, and although I've
a few grown-up patients, left over from the time when I took whatever
came, and was thankful, I am killing them off as fast as I can."
He spoke facetiously, with the design of instilling a lighter element in
the conversation; but, although Jerry smiled wryly, the girl looked so
shocked that Donald hastened to add, "Please don't be alarmed, dear, of
course I didn't mean that literally. And you know that I will do
anything in my power to help. I only wish that I knew more about
troubles affecting the heart," he added.
"Reckon the doctor down in Fayville hed ought ter say the same thing,"
interposed the old man. "I erlows he didn't do me no good, fer I got
better es soon's I quit takin' the stuff he left me."
"Don't be too hard on him, foster father. After all, what you probably
needed most was to give that big heart of yours a rest, and that is what
did the business then, and will now. Well, I'll look you over anyway. I
guess professional ethics won't be outraged, with the other physician
five steep, uphill miles away."
While he talked he had been opening his suitcase, and now took out a
compact emergency bag which experience had taught him never to go away
without, and at whose shining, unfamiliar contents Smiles' eyes opened
with fascinated amazement. Taking out a stethoscope, Donald bade the
giant open his soft, homemade shirt, and planted the transmitting disk
against the massive chest, padded with wonderful, bulging muscles.
"O-ho," he said under his breath, as he finally laid the instrument
aside; for his intently listening ears had caught the faint, but clearly
discernible sound of a systolic murmur, deep within.
"Air the trouble 'Aunt' ... what the other doctor said hit was?"
questioned Rose.
"Angina pectoris? He may have had a touch of that last winter of course,
but my guess is that it's something a bit different now."
"I haint erfeered ter hyar the truth," rumbled Jerry, straightening up
like a soldier before the court martial.
"Well," answered the doctor, "I should say that you have a touch of
another jaw-breaking Latin phrase, namely, an aneurism of the thoracic
aorta."
"Hit shor' sounds powerful bad," grunted Jerry. "But then I reckon thet
doctors likes ter use big words."
"Right. For instance, we prefer to call an old-fashioned cold in the
head, 'Naso-pharyngitis.' The worse it sounds, the more credit we get
for curing it, you see. Well, 'sticks and stones may break our bones,
but _words_ will never hurt us,' so don't let that Latin expression
worry you. Just take things a bit easy, don't overdo physically or get
overexcited, and you'll be good for many a moon yet," he added lightly.
Jerry fastened up his shirt with big, fumbling fingers and walked slowly
outside, while Rose, tears of pity shedding a misty luminousness over
her eyes, stepped close to Donald and laid her hand appealingly on his
arm, "Is it something pretty bad, Doctor Mac?" she breathed.
"Well, it's apparently a mild case ... so far."
"But the trouble ... is it ... is it dangerous?"
He hesitated an instant, then responded quietly, "Nurses have to know
the truth, of course, and I am sure that you have a brave little heart,
so I'm not afraid to tell you that it _is_ bad. It is almost sure to be
fatal, in time, but not necessarily soon. If he will take things easy,
as I told him to, he'll live for a considerable time yet; but we mustn't
allow him to get very greatly excited, or do any very heavy work."
Suddenly very white, but calm and tearless, Smiles answered, "I reckon I
can help him better if I know all about it, doctor. I _got_ to help him,
you know. He's all I have now in the whole world."
"Of course you're going to help him--we both are--but ... you have me,
little sister, and your life work," he answered with awkward tenderness.
"Now let us see if I can make you understand what I believe the trouble
to be. In its incipient--that is, its early stages, it would be rather
hard to tell from angina pectoris, for the symptoms would be much the
same--pain about the heart and shortness of breath. But one can get
over the latter, and feel perfectly well between attacks."
He picked up from his open suitcase a folded newspaper which he had
tossed in half read, on leaving the city, and drew for her a crude
diagram of the heart and major arteries.
"This biggest pipe which goes downward from the heart is called the
great artery, and it and its branches--just like a tree's--carry the
blood into all parts of the body, except the lungs. Another name for it
is the descending thoracic aorta, and that is where grandfather's
trouble is. If you knew something about automobile tires I would explain
it by saying that he had a blow-out, but it's something like this. The
pipe has an outer surface and an inner lining. At one time or another
something happened to injure and weaken the former--disease does it
sometimes--perhaps it may have been a severe strain or crushing blow on
his chest."
"A big tree fell on him early last winter," cried Rose, with sudden
enlightenment. "His chest is so big and strong that he didn't think that
it hurt him, 'cept to lame him considerable."
"That may have caused the trouble. Well, what happens is this. The blood
is pumped by the heart through that weakened pipe, and, little by
little, it forces the lining out through the weakened spot, making
something like a bubble filled with blood. In time that might grow until
you could actually see the swelling, and all the time, the containing
tissue is getting thinner and thinner. Now you can yourself guess the
reason why he mustn't do anything to over-exert his heart. Hard work, or
great excitement, makes our hearts beat faster, and sends the blood
through that big artery with extra force and ..."
"The bubble might ... break," whispered "Smiles," with a frightened look
on her young face.
"Yes. We call it a rupture of the aneurism, and when that happens mortal
life ends."
"Oh," she shuddered slightly. "I must keep him very quiet, Doctor Mac. I
am strong and can do all the work. You tell him that he mustn't do
anything, please, doctor."
"I'm not sure that that would be the wisest plan, Rose. He has been so
strong and active all his life it would break his great heart to be tied
down like an invalid. I'm sure that he would be happier doing things,
even if as a result he didn't live quite so long. Don't you think so,
yourself?"
She nodded, and he continued, "Of course he is so big and strong he can
do common, simple tasks without anything like the amount of exertion
required by an ordinary man, and, so long as he doesn't strain himself,
or get very much excited, we may reasonably expect him to live for a
good while yet. Besides, as the aneurism progresses there will come a
steady, boring pain and increased shortness of breath, which will
themselves help to keep him quiet."
"But can't I give him some medicine?"
"The best medicine that he can possibly have will be your happy,
comforting smile and tender love, my child."
She furtively wiped a stray tear from her cheek and smiled bravely up
into his face, in a wordless pledge that to the administration of this
treatment she would devote herself without stint.
"May I ... may I have that paper," she answered appealingly, as he
started to crumple it up, preparatory to tossing it into the fireplace.
"We don't often have city papers to read, you know."
"Why, of course; I didn't think," he answered, smoothing it out and
handing it to her. She took it eagerly, and had read barely a minute
before she cried, delightedly, "Why, Doctor Mac. _You're_ in this paper.
Oh, did you read what it says?"
"Hang it," thought Donald, "I forgot all about that fool story, or I
wouldn't have given it to her." But she was already reading the brief
article aloud, slowly but with appreciatory expression.
EXCEPTIONAL FEE PAID BOSTON DOCTOR
Dr. Donald MacDonald Operates on Multi-Millionaire's Child
What is rumored to have been one of the biggest fees paid to a
physician in recent years, was received lately by the brilliant
young children's specialist of this city, Dr. Donald MacDonald.
A few weeks ago he was summoned to Newport in consultation with
local and New York physicians over the five-year-old daughter of J.
Bentley Moors, the millionaire copper king, and finally saved the
child's life by performing successfully one of the most difficult
operations known to surgery--the removal of a brain tumor.
The child had already totally lost the power of speech, and had
sunk into a comatose state, the operation being performed at Dr.
MacDonald's suggestion as a final desperate resort.
His associates on the case are unstinted in their praise of his
skill, and declare that few other surgeons in America could have
carried it through with any hope of success.
The child was completely cured, and in his gratitude her father
sent the young doctor a check which--it is said--represented an
amount larger than many men earn in a lifetime.
"What does 'comatose' mean, Doctor Mac?" asked Smiles.
"It means a condition during which the body appears to be lifeless. A
tumor is a growth--in that particular case here, inside the skull, which
pressed on the child's brain, paralyzing, or shutting off, all the
senses."
"Oh, wasn't it wonderful to do what you did ... it was almost like the
miracles our dear Lord performed, for you gave sight to the blind and
raised up one who was _almost_ dead. I am so glad for that little child
and her dear father, and I don't wonder that he gave you a lot of money.
Was it ... was it as much as a ... a thousand dollars?" she asked in an
awed tone.
"Yes, indeed, much more than that, in fact."
"Not five thousand?"
Donald laughed. "The newspaper men, who had somehow or other got wind of
the story--goodness knows how--tried mighty hard to get me to tell them
how much, but I wouldn't. However, since I know that you can keep a
secret, I will tell you. It was just ten times the amount of your last
guess."
"Oh!" she gasped, as the result of the multiplication dawned upon her.
"Why, it was a fortune, and ... and _I_ know you."
"Of course it pleased me," was his answer, "but not half as much as the
result of the operation, dear. If a doctor is really in earnest, and
bound up in his work, he never thinks whether the little sufferer
stretched before him in bed, or on the operating table, has a father
worth a million dollars, or one in the poorhouse. That is the reason why
we have to charge for our services by a different standard from men in
almost any other kind of work. The rich man has to help pay for the poor
man, whether he wants to or not. I meant to charge that very rich man
enough so that I could give myself to a great many poor children without
charging them anything, perhaps; but he had a big heart and sent me that
check for several times what I should have charged without even waiting
for me to make out a bill. And his letter, which came with it, said that
even fifty thousand dollars was poor compensation for a life worth more
to him than all the money in the whole world."
"A little child's life _is_ more precious than all the gold that ever
was," said Smiles seriously, "for only God can give it."