Purple Springs. Nellie L. McClung

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

       Table of Contents

      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,