TANGLED THREADS
At daybreak, when the light from the eastern sky came in blue at the
window blind, and the gasoline lamp grew sickly and pale, the doctor
went to bed. He had thought it all out and outlined his course of
action.
He did not doubt the old doctor's word; his own knowledge gave
corroborative evidence that it was quite true, and he wondered he had
not thought of it. Still, there was something left for him to do. He
would play up and play the game, even if it were a losing fight. His
own house had fallen, but it would be his part now to see that the
minimum amount of pain would come to Pearl over it. She was young,
and had all the world before her--she would forget. He had a curious
shrinking from having her know that he had the disease, for like most
doctors, he loathed the thought of disease, and had often quoted
to his patients in urging them to obey the laws of physiological
righteousness, the words of Elbert Hubbard that "The time would come
when people would feel more disgrace at being found in a hospital than
in a jail, for jails were for those who broke men's laws, but those in
the hospital had broken the laws of God!"
He shuddered now when he thought of it, it all seemed so
unnecessary--so wantonly cruel--so so inexplicable.
Above all, Pearl must not know, for instinctively he felt that if she
knew he was a sick man, she would marry him straight away--she would
be so sweet about it all, and so hopeful and sure he would get well,
and such a wonderfully skilful and tender nurse, that he would surely
get well. For one blissful but weak moment, which while it thrilled
it frightened him still more--he allowed himself to think it would be
best to tell her. Just for one weak moment the thought came--to be
banished forever from his mind. No! No! No! disaster had come to him,
but Pearl would not be made to suffer, she would not be involved in
any way.
But just what attitude to take, perplexed him. Those big, soft brown
eyes of hers would see through any lie he tried to invent, and he
was but a poor liar anyway. What could he tell Pearl? He would
temporize--he would stall for time. She was too young--she had seen so
little of the world--it would be hard to wait--he believed he could
take that line with her--he would try it.
When he awakened, the sun was shining in the room, with a real spring
warmth that just for a minute filled him with gladness and a sense of
wellbeing. Then he remembered, and a groan burst from his lips.
The telephone rang:
Reaching out, he seized it and answered.
"It's me," said a voice, "It's Pearl! I am coming in--I know you're
tired after yesterday, and you need a long sleep--so don't disturb
yourself--I'll be in about two o'clock--just when the sun is
brightest--didn't I tell you it would be finer still today?"
"You surely did, Pearl," he answered, "however you knew."
"I'm not coming just to see you--ma wants a new strainer, and Bugsey
needs boots, and Mary has to have another hank of yarn to finish the
sweater she's knitting--these are all very urgent, and I'll get them
attended to first, and then...."
She paused:
"Then you'll come and see me, Pearl"--he finished, "and we'll have the
meeting which we adjourned three years ago--to meet yesterday."
"That's it," she said, "and goodbye until then."
He looked at his watch, it was just ten--there was yet time.
Reaching for the telephone, he called long distance, Brandon. "Give me
Orchard's greenhouses," he said.
After a pause he got the wire:
"Send me a dozen and a half--no, nineteen--American Beauty roses on
today's train, without fail. This is Dr. Clay of Millford talking."
He put back the telephone, and lay back with a whimsical smile,
twisting his mouth. "The frosted ones are mine," he said to himself,
"there will be no blight or spot or blemish on Pearl's roses."
It was quite like Pearl to walk into the doctors' office without
embarrassment. It was also like her to come at the exact hour she had
stated in her telephone message--and to the man who sat waiting for
her, with a heart of lead, she seemed to bring the whole sunshine of
Spring with her.
Ordinarily, Dr. Clay did not notice what women wore, they all looked
about the same to him--but he noticed that Pearl's gray coat and furs
just needed the touch of crimson which her tam o'shanter and gloves
supplied, and which seemed to carry out the color in her glowing
cheeks. She looked like a red apple in her wholesomeness.
He had tried to get the grittiness of the sleepless night out of his
eyes, and had shaved and dressed himself with the greatest care,
telling himself it did not matter--but the good habit was deeply
fastened on him and could not be set aside.
There was nothing about the well-dressed young man, with his carefully
brushed hair and splendid color, to suggest disease. Pearl's eyes
approved of each detail, from the way his hair waved and parted back;
the dull gold and purple tie, which seemed to bring out the bronze
tones in his hair and the steely gray of his eyes; the well-cut
business suit of rough brown tweed, with glints of green and bronze,
down to the dark brown, well-polished boots.
Pearl was always proud of him; it glowed in her eyes again today,
and again he felt it, warming his heart and giving him the sense of
well-being which Pearl's presence always brought. All at once he felt
rested and full of energy.
When the first greetings were over, and Pearl had seated herself, at
his invitation, in the big chair, he said, laughing:
"'Tis a fine day, Miss Watson."
"It is that!" said Pearl, with her richest brogue, which he had often
told her he hoped she would never lose.
"And you are eighteen years old now," he said, in the same tone.
"Eighteen, going on nineteen," she corrected gaily.
"All right, eighteen--going on--nineteen. Three years ago there was a
little bargain made between us--without witnesses, that we would defer
all that was in our minds for three years--we'd give the matter a
three years' hoist--and then take it up just where we left it!"
She nodded, without speaking.
"Now I have thought about it a lot," he went on, "indeed I do not
think a day has gone by without my thinking of it, and incidentally,
I have thought of myself and my belongings. I wish to draw your
attention to them--I am twenty-nine years old--I've got a ten years'
start of you, and I will always expect to be treated with respect on
account of my years--that's clearly understood, is it?"
He was struggling to get himself in hand.
"Clearly understood," she repeated, with her eyes on him in
unmistakable adoration.
"Six years ago," he seemed to begin all over gain--"I came out of
college, with all sorts of fine theories, just bubbling over with
enthusiasm, much the same as you are now, fresh from Normal, but
somehow they have mostly flattened out, and now I find myself settling
down to the prosy life of a country doctor, who feeds his own horses
and blackens his own boots, and discusses politics with the retired
farmers who gather in the hardware store. I catch myself at it quite
often. Old Bob Johnson and I are quite decided there will be a war
with Germany before many years. We don't stop at Canadian affairs--the
world is not too wide for us! Yes, Pearl, here I am, a country doctor,
with an office in need of paint--a very good medical library--in need
of reading--a very common-place, second-rate doctor--who will never
be a great success, who will just continue to grub along. With you,
Pearl, it is different. You have ambition, brains--and something about
you that will carry you far--I always knew it--and am so glad that at
the Normal they recognized your ability."
A puzzled look dimmed the brightness of her eyes just for a moment,
and the doctor stumbled on.
"I am all right, as far as I go--but there's not enough of me--I'm not
big enough for you, Pearl."
Pearl's eyes danced again, as she looked him up and down, and he
laughed in spite of himself.
"For goodness sake, girl," he cried, "don't look at me, you make me
forget what I was saying--I can't think, when you train those eyes of
yours on me."
Pearl obediently turned her head away, but he could still see the
dimple in her cheeks.
"I have had a long fight with myself, Pearl," and now that he was back
to the truth, his voice had its old mellowness that swept her heart
with tenderness--"a long fight--and it is not over yet. I'm selfish
enough to want you---that is about 99.9% of me is selfish, the other
infinitesimal part cries out for me to play the man--and do the square
thing--I am making a bad job of this, but maybe you understand."
He came over and turned her head around until she faced him.
"I have begun at the wrong end of this, dear, I talk as if you had
said--you cared--I have no right to think you do. I should remember
you are only a child--and haven't thought about--things like this!"
"O, haven't I, though," she cried eagerly. "I've been thinking--all
the time--I've never stopped thinking--I've had the loveliest time
thinking."
The doctor went on in a measured tone, as one who must say the words
he hates to utter. All the color had gone from his voice, all the
flexibility. It was as hard as steel now, and as colorless as a dusty
road.
"Pearl, I am going to say what I should say, not what I want to
say.... Supposing I did induce you to marry me now. Suppose I could
... in ten years from now, when you are a woman grown, you might
hate me for taking advantage of your youth, your inexperience, your
childish fancy for me--I am not prepared to take that risk--it would
be a criminal thing to run any chances of spoiling a life like yours."
Her eyes looked straight into his, and there was a little muttered cry
in them that smote his heart with pity. He had seen it in the faces of
little children, his patients, who, though hurt, would not cry.
"And I am selfish enough to hope that in a few years, when you are old
enough to choose, you will think of what I am doing now, and know the
sacrifice I am making, and come to me of your own free will--no, I did
not intend to say that--I do not mean what I said--the world is yours,
Pearl, to choose as you will--I have no claim on you! You start fair."
Pearl's cheeks had lost a little of their rosy glow, and her face
had taken on a cream whiteness. She stood up and looked at him, with
widely opened eyes. A girl of smaller soul might have misunderstood
him, and attributed to him some other motive. Though Pearl did not
agree with him, she believed every word he had said.
"Supposing," she said eagerly, "that I do not want to start
fair--and don't want to be free to choose--supposing I have made my
choice--supposing I understand you better than you do yourself, and
tell you now that you are not a second-hand doctor--that you are a sun
and a shield to this little town and country, just as you have been to
me--you bring health and courage by your presence--the people love and
trust you--suppose I remind you that you are not only a doctor,
but the one that settles their quarrels and puts terror into the
evil-doer. Who was it that put the fear into Bill Plunkett when he
blackened his wife's eyes, and who was it that brought in the two
children from the Settlement, that were abused by their step-father,
and took the old ruffian's guns away from him and marched him in too!
That's a job for a second-rate doctor, isn't it? I hear the people
talking about you, and I have to turn my back for fear they hear my
eyes shouting out, 'That's my man you're praising' and here he is,
telling me he is a second-rate doctor! Is that what you were when the
fever was so bad, and all the Clarke's had it at once, and you nursed
six of them through it? Mrs. Clarke says the only undressing you did
was to loosen your shoe-laces!"
"Don't you see--I know you better than you do yourself. You don't see
how big your work is. Is it a small thing to live six years in a place
and have every one depending on you, praising you--loving you--and
being able to advise them and lead the young fellows anyway you
like--making men of them, instead of street loafers--and their mothers
so thankful they can hardly speak of it."
"You evidently don't know what we think of you, any of us--and here
I am--I don't know when it began with me--the first day I saw you--I
think, when I was twelve--I've been worshipping you and treasuring up
every word you ever said to me. I don't know whether it is love or
not, it's something very sweet. It has made me ambitious to look my
best, do my best and be my best. I want to make you proud of me--I
will make you proud of me--see if I don't--I want to be with you, to
help you, look after you--grow up with you--I don't know whether it is
love or not--it--is something! There is nothing too hard for me to do,
if it is for you--everything--any thing would be sweet to me--if you
were with me. Is that love?"
She was standing before him, holding his hand in both of hers, and her
eyes had the light in them, the tender, glowing light that seemed to
flame blue at the edges, like the coal fire he had watched the night
before.
Impulsively he drew her to him, and for a moment buried his face in
her warm, white neck, kissing the curling strands of her brown hair.
"O Pearl," he cried, drawing away from her, "O Pearl--you're a hard
girl to give up--you make me forget all my good resolutions. I don't
want to do what I ought to do. I just want you."
There was a smothered cry in his voice that smote on Pearl's heart
with a sudden fear. Mothers know the different notes in their
children's cries--and in Pearl, the maternal instinct was strong.
She suddenly understood. He was suffering, there was a bar between
them--for some reason, he could not marry her!
She grew years older, it seemed, in a moment, and the thought that
came into her brain, clamoring to be heard, exultantly, insistently
knocking for admission, was this--her mother's pessimistic way of
looking at life was right--there were things too good to be true--she
had been too sure of her happiness. The thought, like cold steel, lay
against her heart and dulled its beating. But the pain in his eyes
must be comforted. She stood up, and gravely took the hand he held out
to her.
"Doctor," she said steadily, "you are right, quite right, about
this--a girl of eighteen does not know her own mind--it is too serious
a matter--life is too long--I--I think I love you--I mean I thought I
did--I know I like to be with you--and---all that--but I'm too young
to be sure--and I'll get over this all right. You're right in all you
say--and it's a good thing you are so wise about this--we might have
made a bad mistake--that would have brought us unhappiness. But it has
been sweet all the time, and I'm not sorry--we'll just say no more
about it now and don't let it worry you--I can stand anything--if
you're not worried."
He looked at her in amazement--and not being as quick as she, her
words deceived him, and there was not a quiver on her lips, as she
said:
"I'll go now, doctor, and we'll just forget what we were saying--they
were foolish words. I'm thinking of going North to teach--one of the
inspectors wrote me about a school there. I just got his letter today,
and he asked me to wire him--I'll be back at the holidays."
She put the red tam on her brown hair, tucking up the loose strands,
in front of the glass, as she spoke. Manlike, he did not see that her
hands trembled, and her face had gone white. He sat looking at her in
deep admiration.
"What a woman you are, Pearl," broke from his lips.
She could not trust herself to shake hands, or even look at him. Her
one hope was to get away before her mask of unconcern broke into a
thousand pieces by the pounding of her heart, which urged her to throw
her arms around him and beg him to tell her what was really wrong--oh,
why wouldn't he tell her!
"You'll think of this dear," he said, "in a few years when you are, I
hope, happily married to the man of your choice, and you will have a
kindly thought for me, and know I was not a bad sort--you'll remember
every word of this Pearl, and you will understand that what is
strange to you now--and you will perhaps think of me--and if not with
pleasure, it will at least be without pain."
He wanted to give her the roses, which had come just a few moments
before she came in, but somehow he could not frame a casual word of
greeting. He would send them to her.
She was going now.
"Pearl, dearest Pearl," he cried "I cannot let you go like this--and
yet--it's best for both of us."
"Sure it is," she said, smiling tightly, to keep her lips from
quivering. "I'm feeling fine over it all." The pain in his voice made
her play up to her part.
"I can't even kiss you, dear,'" he said. "I don't want you to have one
bitter memory of this. I want you to know I was square--and loved you
too well to take the kiss, which in after life might sting your face
when you thought that I took advantage of your youth. A young girl's
first kiss is too sacred a thing."
Suddenly Pearl's resolution broke down. It was the drawn look in his
face, and its strange pallor.
She reached up and kissed his cheek.
"A little dab of a kiss like that won't leave a sting on any one's
face," she said.
She was gone!