CHAPTER IX
THE DOCTOR'S DECISION
When Pearl left him so abruptly, Dr. Clay found himself battling with many emotions. His first impulse was to call her back—tell her everything. Pearl was not a child—she would know what was best. It was not fair to deceive her, and that was just what he had done, with the best intentions.
But something held him back. The very heart of him was sick and full of bitterness at the sudden slap which fate had given him. His soul was still stinging with the pain of it. Everything was distorted and queer, and in the confusion of sensations the outstanding one was the instinct to hide all knowledge of his condition. No one must know. He would go to see the old doctor and swear him to secrecy. After all, his life was his own—he was under obligation to no one to stretch it out miserably and uselessly.
He would go on as long as he could, and live it out triumphantly. He would go out like Old Prince. He thought of the hymn which gives thanks to God, "Who kindly lengthens out our days," and the thought of it was mingled with something like scorn. He did not want any lengthening out of his time if there could not be real power, real service in each day. He would live while he lived, and die when he had to, and with that resolution he tried to get back his calmness of spirit.
Looking at himself in the glass, he had to admit his face was haggard, and thinner than it had been, and he knew he had lost weight. Still, that could be recovered—he was not going to worry or think about himself. He had always contended that disease was ninety per cent. imagination and ten per cent. reality, and now he was going to see. Every one is under the death sentence; the day is set for each man. "I am no worse off," he thought, "than I was before—if I could only see it that way—and I will—I am going to be the Captain of my soul—even though it may be for a very short cruise—no disease or whimpering weakness will usurp my place—'Gladly I lived—gladly I died. And I laid me down with a will,'" he quoted, but his mouth twisted a little on the words. Life was too sweet. He loved it too well to lay it down gladly. O no, there could be no pretence of gladness.
He found himself thinking of Pearl, and the tender, loving, caressing light in her eyes, her impulsive kiss—her honest words of heavenly sweetness; what a girl she was! He had watched her grow from a little bright-eyed thing, who always interested him with her wisdom, her cheerfulness, her devotion to her family, until now, when she had grown to be a serious-minded, beautiful girl, with a manner full of repose, dignity, grace—a wonderfully attractive girl—who looked honestly into his eyes and told him she loved him, and he had had to turn away from his happiness and tell her it could not be. And he had seen the dimming of those shining eyes and the tightening of her lips. He had had to hurt Pearl, and that was the bitterest thought of all.
Again the temptation came to tell her! But the stern voice of conscience cried out to him that if she knew she would consider herself bound to him, and would not take her liberty, and the finest years of her young life would be spent in anxiety and care.
"I might live to be an old man," he said bitterly. "If I were sure I could drop out soon, it would not matter so much. Pearl would still have her life ahead of her, and I would come to be but a memory, but as it is—there's but one straight and honorable course—and I will take it."
Then he thought of the roses, and wrote a card and a note, and called Bertie at the Livery Stable to come to the office. When Bertie arrived, much out of breath, the doctor charged him to be quick in his errand of delivering them. Bertie was anxious to talk, and volunteered the information that Pearl Watson was an awful pretty girl, but Mrs. Crocks had just met her on the street and been talkin' to her a little while, and she thought Pearl was gettin' pretty stuck up.