Purple Springs. Nellie L. McClung
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