Purple Springs - Nellie L. McClung
Pearl was bringing back "the room" to the state of tidiness it enjoyed
during school hours, moving about with joyous haste, yet with strict
attention to every detail, which did not escape her mother's eye.
"It's grand to be as light of heart as you are, Pearlie child," she
said, "I'm often afraid for you--when I think of all the sad things in
life and you so sure that everything will happen right. It is to them
that the world is brightest that the darkest days can come, and the
lightest heart sometimes has heaviest mournin'."
A little wither of disappointment went over Pearl's bright face, but
she shook it off impatiently. She wished her mother would not talk
like this on this day--of all days.
"Don't spoil a good day, ma, with sad talk. Look out at the Spring sun
there, and the cattle, even the wild ones from the range, with their
sides steaming and then nosing around so happy now, for getting all
about the bad times they had even as late as last evening. There's
no use telling them there's cold days coming--they wouldn't believe
now--and anyway they'll know soon enough. Isn't it best to let every
one have their sunny day--without a cloud on it."
Before her mother could form an answer, the one long and two short
rings came on the phone. Pearl's heart turned over in its bounding
joy. It had come--she knew it had come.
She took down the receiver:
"Hello," she said, in a thin voice.
"Pearl," said the voice, deep, mellow, eager. She thought she had
remembered what his voice was like, but she hadn't. It was a hundred
times sweeter than it had been in her memory.
"Yes," she said, holding the receiver so tightly her knuckles went
white with the pressure.
"What day is it, Pearl," he said, with the laugh in his voice, the
bantering laugh that made his patients love him.
"O I know" she said--"I know."
"You haven't forgotten what we said?"
"Not a word of it."
His voice came nearer, though he spoke lower.
"The train is not in yet, it is stuck out in the hills, but likely to
get out any minute. Dr. Brander is on it, coming out from the city to
operate for me in a very serious case, I'm not sure when I can get
out--but you'll wait for me--won't you, Pearl?"
She put her red young lips close to the transmitter.
"For a thousand years!" she said.
"Well, it won't be that long," he said, with his happy laugh.
Pearl knew exactly how his brows were lifted, and his eyes wide
opened.
"But it's great to have as good a margin, Pearl--and listen--" his
voice fell again until it seemed to whisper in her ear--"did you
happen to notice what sort of a day it is?"
"Well," said Pearl, "I am not surprised. Didn't I tell you it would
be?"
"You told me!" he said.
Then it was that from Pearlie Watson's young heart there opened up a
shining path straight up into heaven, and every inch of that radiant
highway was bright with the gleam of angel's wings, and as she stood
there leaning against the wall, her eyes dazzled with the glory of it,
it seemed as if all the sweet songs that lovers have ever sung, and
all the tender words they have ever spoken came marching, gaily
marching down the shining high way, right into her heart.
Outside the sun gleamed and beat on the melting snow, which sent back
quivery vibrations that smote the eyeballs like fire. The cattle shook
the water from their sun-dazzled eyes, and turned their heads away
from it, but it climbed steadily higher until it stood right over
them, and blazing down upon the snowy world, defied old man Winter to
his face.
Pearl was never quite sure about it in after years. But that day
she did not doubt her eyes, that star dust danced in the waves of
sunshine; that the gray snow birds played crack the whip outside the
window; that the willow hedge, palpitating in the sunshine, beat time
with its silvery branches to the music that lilted through her heart;
that the blue in the sky was bluer than it had been, and the sunshine
more golden than it ever was in the highest noon in highest June.
She was quite sure it was so, for every spot of color within doors was
glorified too. The roses in the cushions on the lounge glowed like
a fire in the heart of a green wood; the cat's eyes gleamed like
olivines, but of course Pearl knew from the way he rubbed his head
against her shoulder as she sat on the lounge beside him, and from
the way he blinked at her--he knew, having no doubt in some occult
cat-way, listened in on the phone! There was no mistaking his
swaggering air of importance--he was in on it! and gave much credit to
himself for having brought it all about.
The old dog, being just a plain, honest-hearted, loving dog, only
knew that Pearl was very happy over something. He did not probe the
cause--if it pleased her--it was enough.
At four o'clock there came another message--which set Pearl's heart
dancing, and spotted her cheeks with a glowing color--the operation
was over--apparently successful--and they were driving back to town.
The other train might be late too, so it would be impossible for him
to come out--but would she still wait? Did the thousand year limit
still hold?
There was just a hint of fatigue in his voice, which awakened all the
maternal instincts in Pearl, and made her heart very tender to him.
"I will wait--forever," said Pearl.
"Just until tomorrow," came back the voice--"just till tomorrow--and
it will be fine tomorrow--won't it, Pearl! Say it will be fine."
"Finer still," she replied, with her cheeks like the early roses in
June.
The day went by on satin wings--with each minute so charged with
happiness that Pearl could well believe that heaven had slipped down
to earth, and that she was walking the streets of the new Jerusalem.
She sang as she worked in the house, her sweet, ribbony voice filling
the room with a gladness and rapture that made her mother, with her
mystical Celtic temperament almost apprehensive.
"She's a queer girl, is Pearlie," she said that night, when Pearl had
gone upstairs to arbitrate a quarrel which had broken out between
Bugsey and Danny as to whose turn it was to split the kindling wood.
"Day about" it had been until Bugsey had urged that it be changed to
"week about," and the delicate matter in dispute now was as to the day
on which the week expired. Danny, who had been doing the kindling, was
certain that the date of expiry had arrived, but Bugsey's calendar
set the day one day later, and the battle raged, with both sides ably
argued, but unfortunately not listened to by the opposing forces.
"She's a queer child, is Pearlie," said Mrs. Watson, as she beat up
the bread-batter downstairs, "she's that light-hearted and free from
care, and her eighteen years old. She's like somethin' that don't
belong on earth, with her two big eyes shinin' like lamps, and the way
she sings through the house, settin' the table or scourin' the milk
pails or mendin' a coat for the boys--it don't seem natural. She's too
happy, whatever its' about, and it makes me afraid for her. She's the
kind that sees nothin' wrong, and won't see trouble comin' till its
too late. I often feel afraid she's too good and happy for this world.
She's always been the same, liltin' and singin' and makin' everyone
happy around her."
Jimmy was washing his face in the enamel basin which stood on a box
below the mirror, and looking around with a dripping wet face, felt
with a wildy swinging motion of his arms for the towel. When he had
secured it, and all danger of soapsuds getting into his eyes was
removed, he joined the conversation.
"Gosh, Ma!" he said, "you don't know Pearl, she's not the saint you
take her for. I'll bet the Tucker kids don't think she's too good to
live. Not much! They know she can hold up her end of a row as well as
any one. When she found out they had killed the cat they got from
us, and tanned the skin to make a rim on a cap, you should have seen
Pearl. She just cut loose on the two of them, and chased them through
the sloughs and up the road clear home--larrupin' them with a binder
whip, as fast as she could swing it--the yowls out of them would have
done your heart good!"
Mrs. Watson stopped her work, with her floury hands raised in
consternation.
"God's mercy," she cried, "did Pearl do that--and both of them
bigger'n her. Ain't it a wonder they did not turn on her?"
"Turn"---Jimmy cried scornfully, "Turn--is it? They were too busy
runnin'. Gosh--they would'a flew if they knew how. Served them
right--they knew blame well they deserved it, for Pearl would never
have given them the cat if they hadn't worked it so smooth. They told
her they wanted a strain of Tiger in their cats, for all of theirs
were black--and Pearl, gave them our fine young Tom--and they promised
all sorts to be good to him--and when Pearl saw his skin on their
caps, and put it to them, they said they hadn't said it was a 'strain
of tiger for their cats' they wanted, but a 'strand of tiger for their
caps'--that's what made Pearl so mad." Mr. Donald said Pearl did
quite right, and he told the Tuckers they were the making of great
politicians--they were so smart at getting out of things. But Gosh,
you should have seen Pearl! She finished the job off right, too, you
bet, and made them put up slab at the school and did the printin' on
it in red ink. You can see it there,--they have had to print it over
once or twice. We all know the words off by heart:
Young Tom,
Tiger cat,
Owned by P. Watson,
Given away in good faith April 1st,
Wickedly killed to make a cap, April 15th,
Avenged by former owner, May 1st.
T. Tucker. S. Tucker.
People all look at it when they come to the church, and I guess the
Tuckers feel pretty small. Pearl says if they are really sorry, it is
all right, and young Tom has not died in vain. Every cat has to die
sometime, and if he had softened the Tucker's hearts--it is all right.
Pearl said she wasn't real sure about them, and I guess if they kill
another cat, she'll kill them sure--she said that's the way to do with
people like them. Make them repentant--or dead!"
"God save us all," cried Mrs. Watson, in real distress, "whatever will
happen to her when she goes out into the world. That's awful talk for
a girl especially. Whatever will become of her when she leaves home.
She'll be in hot water all the time."
"No fear of Pearlie!" said her father proudly--as he opened the end
door of the stove and picked up a coal for his pipe, placing it
without undue haste in the bowl, and carefully pressing it down with
his thumb. Leaning back in the chintz-covered rocking chair, he spread
his feet out to the heat which came from the oven door, and repeated,
"No fear of Pearlie--there ain't a girl in the country better able
to do for herself. Faith--and she's no fool--and never was--I ain't
worrying about Pearlie wherever she goes--or whatever she meets--I
ain't worrying."
"You don't worry about anything, John," said Mrs. Watson, in reproof,
as she covered the bread with many wrappings and fixed two chairs to
hold it behind the stove for the night; "you didn't even worry the
night the crop froze, sleepin' and snorin' the whole night through,
with me up every half hour watching the thermometer, and it slippin'
lower and lower, and the pan o' water on the woodpile gettin' its
little slivers of ice around the edge, and when the thermometer went
to thirty, I knew it was all up with the wheat, but do you think I
could wake you--you rolled over with a grunt, leavin' me alone to
think of the two hundred acres gone in the night, after all our hard
work ... and then to have you come down in the mornin', stretchin'
and yawnin', after a good night's sleep, and says you, as cheerful as
could be, 'Cold mornin', Ma!'"
John Watson took his pipe from his mouth, and laughed quietly.
"And what was wrong with that, Ma--sure now it was cold--you said
yourself it was," he said gently.
The boys joined in the laugh, but Mrs. Watson repeated her point.
"Cold it was, sure enough, but think o' me up frettin' and fumin', and
you come down as cheerful as if starvation wasn't starin' us in the
face."
"But we didn't starve, Ma," said Billy, coming to his father's
defense, "the crop was all right for feed, and we did well after all.
You had all your frettin' for nothing."
"It's that way mostly," said John Watson, "I never saw any good yet in
frettin'. Anyway, Ma does enough of it for all of us, so that lets
me out. There's the two kinds of Irish--them that don't fret over
anything--and them that frets over every thing--that's me and you,
Ma--and it works out fine--it runs about even. You've always been so
sure that things were goin' wrong, I've just had to be a little surer
that they wern't. And then of course I knew that night that you would
watch the frost--if there was any watchin' to it."
"John, it is well for you that you have some one to do your watchin',"
said Mrs. Watson. "You're an easy goin' man, John, but I'll say this
for you, that a better natured man never lived."
When all the family had gone to bed, and the last sound had died out
in the house, Pearl stood long at the window and looked out at the
moonlit valley. The warm day had melted the frost from the window, and
when she put out the lamp, the moonlight seemed almost as clear as
day. Silvery-mauve and blue it lay on the quiet, snowy fields, with a
deeper color on the trees, as if they had wound yards and yards of the
gauzy stuff around their bare shoulders, for the night was chilly. To
Pearl it was even more beautiful than the sunshine of the day, for in
its silvery stillness, she could think and dream without interruption.
The night was too beautiful to sleep, and the riot of joy in her heart
made her forget that anyone ever grew weary or tired. She was part of
the moonlight, with its glistening witchery, part of the overarching
sky, with its wealth of glittering stars, part of the velvety night
wind that caressed the trees in its gentle passing. Her young soul was
in tune with them all! For the greatest thing in life had come to
her in those few common-place words that had come to her over the
telephone. He had not forgotten--he was coming tomorrow!
The tired note in his voice had awakened an entirely new chord in the
song her heart sang. He needed her. He needed some one to look after
him, care for him, watch him, save him from the hundred little
worrying things that were sapping his energy. People did not
understand that he ever got tired--he was so strong, so buoyant, so
ready to do things for them. Well, there will be someone now, thought
Pearl, with a glow that surged through her veins and made her cheeks
flame, to take care of him.
"Is the doctor in, Mrs. Clay?"
"He is--but he's sleeping--maybe I can tell you what you want to
know--step in here--so he won't hear us--he was out all night--and he
must not be wakened...."
And when he had to go--she would harness the team and drive him, so he
could sleep all the way, and when the roads were fit for it, she would
drive the car--and soon she would be able to set bones and do common
things like that. He would show her--and then they would go to New
York--in two or three years maybe--he had told her once he wanted to
do this--for a post-graduate course--and they would have a little
suite, and she would study, too.
And always, always, always they would be together--and no matter how
many people there were praising him and wanting him--he would just be
her man--and at night, when he was tired--and all the noise of the day
was over and everyone was gone, she would have him all to herself.
Pearl's head sank on the window sill, while an ecstacy of joy swept
over her--happy tears filled her eyes--life was so sweet--so rich--so
full....
CHAPTER III
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."