The Mountain Girl

  CHAPTER XXIII

  IN WHICH DOCTOR HOYLE SPEAKS HIS MIND

  Doctor Hoyle sat in his office staring straight before him, not as if hewere looking at David Thryng, who sat in range of his vision, but as ifseeing beyond him into some other time and place. David had beenspeaking, but now they both were silent, and the young man wondered ifhis old friend had really been paying attention to his words or not.

  "Well, Doctor," he said at last.

  "Well, David."

  "You don't seem satisfied. Is it with my condition?"

  "Your condition? No, no, no! It's not your condition. Yes, yes--fine,fine. I never saw such a marvellous change in my life, never!"

  David smiled over the old doctor's stammer of enthusiasm. It was as ifhis thoughts, fertile and vehement, and the feelings of his great, warmheart welled up within him, and, trying to burst forth all at once,tumbled over themselves, unable to secure words rapidly enough in whichto give themselves utterance.

  "Then why so silent and dubious?"

  "Why--why--y--young man, I wasn't thinking anything about you justthen." And again David laughed, while his wiry old friend jumped up andwalked rapidly and restlessly about the small apartment and laughed insympathy. "It's not--not--"

  "I know." David grew instantly sober again. "Of course the little chap'scase is serious--very--or I would not have brought him to you."

  "Oh, no, no, I'm not thinking of Adam, bless you, no." The doctor alwayscalled his little namesake Adam. "I'm thinking of her--the little girlyou left behind you. Yes--yes. Of her."

  "She's not so little now, Doctor; she's tall--tall enough to bebeautiful."

  "I remember her,--slight--slight little creature, all eyes and hair, allsoul and mind. Now what are you going to do with her, eh?"

  "What is she going to do with me, rather! I'll go back to her as soon asI dare leave the boy."

  "But, man alive! what--what are--you can't live down there all yourdays. It's to be life and work for you, sir, and what are you going todo with her, I say?"

  "I'll bring her here with me. She'll come."

  "Of course you'll bring her here with you, and you--you'll have plentyof friends. Maybe they'll appreciate her, and maybe they won't; maybethey won't, I say; Understand? And she'll c--come. Oh, yes, she'll come!she'll do whatever you say, and presently she'll break her heart and diefor you. She'll never say a word, but that's what she'll do."

  "Why, Doctor!" cried David, appalled. "I love her as my own life--myvery soul."

  "Of--of course. That goes without saying. We all do, we men, butwe--damn it all! Do you suppose I've lived all these years and not seen?Why--we think of ourselves first every time. D--don't we, though?Rather!"

  "But selfish as we are, we can love--a man can, if he sets himself to ithonestly,--love a woman and make her happy, even without theappreciation of others, in spite of environment,--everything. It's thedestiny of women to love us, thank God. She would have been doomedsurely to die if she had married the one who wanted her first--or tolive a life for her worse than death."

  "Oh, Lord bless you, boy, yes. It's a woman's destiny. I'm an old fool.There--there's my own little girl, she's m--married and gone--gone tolive in England. They will do it--the women will. Come, we'll go seeAdam."

  The doctor sprang up, brushed his hand across his eyes, and caught up abattered silk hat. He turned it about and looked at it ruefully, with aquizzical smile playing about the corners of his eyes. "Remember thathat?" he asked.

  "Well do I remember it. You've driven many a mile in many a rainstormby my side under that hat! When you're done with it, leave it to me inyour will. I have a fancy for it. Will you?"

  "Here, take it--take it. I'm done with it. Mary scolds me every dayabout it. No p--peace in life because of it. Here's a new one I boughtthe other day--good one--good enough."

  He lifted a box which had fallen from his cluttered office table, andtook from it a new hat which had evidently not been unpacked before. Hetried it on his head, turned it about and about, took it off and gazedat it within and without, then hastily tossed it aside and, snatchinghis old one from David put it on his head, and they started off.

  Hoyle had been placed in a small ward where were only two other littlebeds, both occupied, with one nurse to attend on the three patients. Oneof them had broken his leg and had to lie in a cast, and the other wasconvalescing from fever, but both were well enough to be companionablewith the lonely little Southerner. Hoyle's face beamed upon David as hebent over him.

  "I kin make pi'chers whilst I'm a-lyin' here," he cried ecstatically."That thar lady, she 'lows me to make 'em. She 'lows mine're good uns."David glanced at the young woman indicated. She was pleasant-faced androsy, and looked practical and good.

  "He's such an odd little chap," she said.

  "What be that--odd? Does hit mean this 'er lump on my back?" He pulledDavid down and whispered the question in his ear.

  "No, no. She only means that you're a dear, queer little chap."

  "What be I quare fer?"

  "What are all these drawings? Tell us what they mean."

  "This'n, hit's the ocean, an' that thar, hit's a steamship sailin' onth' ocean, like you done tol' me about. An' this'n, hit's our house an'here's whar ol' Pete bides at; an' this'n's ol' Pete kickin' out like hehated somethin' like he does when we give Frale's colt his corn first."The other small boys from their beds laughed out merrily and strainedtheir necks to see. "These're theirn. I made this'n fer him an' this'nfer him."

  He tossed the pictures feebly toward them, and they fluttered to thefloor. David gathered them up and gave them to their respective owners.The old doctor stood beside the cot and looked down on the littleartist. His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled.

  "Which one is y--yours?" he asked.

  "I keep this'n with the sea--an'--here, I made this'n fer you." Hepaused, and selected carefully among the pile of papers under his hand."You reckon you kin tell what 'tis?"

  The doctor took the paper and regarded it gravely a moment, then liftedhis eyebrows and made grimaces of wonderment until the three patients inthe three little beds were in gales of laughter. At last he said:--

  "It's a pile of s--sausages."

  "Hit hain't no sausages. Hit's jest a straight, cl'ar pi'cher of ahouse, an' hit's your house, too, whar brothah David lives at. See?Thar's the winder, an' the other winder hit's on t'othah side whar youcan't see hit."

  The doctor turned the paper over and regarded it a moment. "Show me thewindow. I--I see no window on the other side."

  Again the three little invalids laughed uproariously at their visitor.David smilingly looked on. How often had he seen the delightful old manamuse himself thus with the children! He would contort his mobile faceinto all the varying expressions of wonder and dismay, of terror orstupefaction, and his entrance to the children's ward was always greetedwith outcries of delight, when the little ones were well enough to allowof such freedom.

  "Haven't you one to send to your sister?" asked David, stooping low tothe child and speaking quietly. The boy's face lighted with a radiantsmile that caused the old man to stand regarding him more intently.

  "We'll sen' her this'n of the sea. You reckon hit looks like the oceanwhar the ships go a-sailin' to t'othah side o' the world?" He held it inhis slender fingers and eyed it critically.

  "How did you come to try to make a picture of the sea when you never sawit?"

  "Do' know. I feel like I done seed th' ocean when I'm settin' thar onthe rock an' them white, big clouds go a-sailin' far--far, like they'regoin' to anothah world an' hain't quite touchin' this'n."

  "I wondered why you had your ship so high above the sea."

  "I don't guess hit's a very good'n," said the child, ruefully, clingingto the scrap of paper with reluctant grasp. "You reckon she'd keer ferthis'n?"

  "I reckon she'd care for anything you made. Give it to me, and I'll sendit to her."

  "She tol' me the sea, hit war blue, an' I can't make hit right blue an'so
ft like she said. That thar blue pencil, hit's too slick. I can't makehit stay on the papah."

  "What are these mounds here on either side of the sea?"

  "Them's mountains."

  "But why did you put mountains in the sea?" The boy looked with wideeyes dreamily past the two men so attentively regarding him.

  "I--I reckon I jes' put 'em thar fer to look like the sea hit war on theworld. I don't guess the'd be no ocean nor no world 'thout the' warmountains fer to hold everything whar hit belongs at."

  "I shall bring you a box of paints to-morrow if the nurse will allow youto have them. I'll provide an oilcloth to spread around so he won'tthrow paint over your nice clean bed," he said to the pleasant-facedyoung woman.

  "That's all right, Doctor," she said.

  "Then you can make the blue stay on, and you can make the ocean withreal water, and real blue for the sky and the sea."

  The child's eyes glowed. He pulled David down and held him with his armabout his neck, and whispered in his ear, and what he said was:--

  "When they're a-pullin' on me to git my hade straight an' my back right,I jes' think 'bout the far--far-away sea, with the ships a-sailin' an'how hit look, an' hit don't hurt so much. I kin b'ar hit a heap bettah.When you comin' back, brothah David?"

  "Does it hurt you very much, Hoyle?"

  "I reckon hit have to hurt," said the child, with fatalisticresignation. "I don't guess he'd hurt me 'thout he had to." He releasedDavid slowly, then pulled him down again. "Don't tell him I 'lowed hithurted me. I reckon he'd ruthah hurt hisself if he could do me rightthat-a-way. You guess I--I'm goin' to git shet o' the misery some day?"

  "That's what we're trying for, my brave little brother," and the twophysicians bade the small patients good-by and walked out upon thestreet.