"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 this. I am so strong—so well—so much alive, except my cough—I am as well as ever I was, and the cough is a simple thing—this seems impossible to me!"
The old doctor had gone to the window to watch the throng of boys and girls who raced past on their way to the hill for an evening's sleigh-ride.
"It always seems impossible," he said, with the air of a man who is totally disassociated from human affairs, and is simply stating an interesting fact, "that is part of the disease, and a very attractive part too. The people who have it, never think they have—even to the last they are hopeful—and sure they will be better tomorrow. No, I am afraid I am not mistaken. You know yourself the theory Clay, of the two sets of microbes, the builders and the destroyers. Just at the present moment, the destroyers have the best of it—they have put one over on the builders—but that does not say that the good microbes are not working—and may yet win. You are young, buoyant, happy, hopeful, temperate in your habits—all of which gives you a better chance—if you will throw the weight of your influence on the side of the builders—there is a good chance of winning—I should think with your Irish blood you would enjoy the fight, Clay."
The young doctor turned around suddenly and threw back his head, with an impatient gesture.
"I love a fight, Dr. Brander, but it has to be of something worth while. I have fought for the life of a man, a woman, a child, and I have fought joyfully—for life is sweet, and I desired it for these people, believing it to be a good gift. But in the fight you outline for me, I see nothing to fire man's heart. I won't fight for life if it means just breathing and scraping along at a poor, dying rate, cheating the undertaker of a nice little piece of legitimate business—I can't grow enthusiastic over the prospect of always thinking about myself—and my rest—and my sleep—or my clothes—always looking for a draught or fleeing from the night air or a thunderstorm—never able to do a man's job or a day's work. I can't do it, Dr. Brander, and you couldn't do it. It's a poor, miserable, dull existence, unhappy for me, and no service to any one."
Two red spots burned in his cheeks, and the old doctor, noticing them, wished again that he had come to see him sooner.