THE HOUSE OF CLAY
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 obscessed 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!