V
When he finished medical college Dick Livingstone had found, like othermen, that the two paths of ambition and duty were parallel and did notmeet. Along one lay his desire to focus all his energy in one direction,to follow disease into the laboratory instead of the sick room, andthere to fight its unsung battles. And win. He felt that he would win.
Along the other lay David.
It was not until he had completed his course and had come home that hehad realized that David was growing old. Even then he might have feltthat, by the time David was compelled to relinquish his hold on hispractice, he himself would be sufficiently established in his specialtyto take over the support of the household. But here there was interposeda new element, one he had not counted on. David was fiercely jealous ofhis practice; the thought that it might pass into new and alien handswas bitter to him. To hand it down to his adopted son was one thing; topass it over to "some young whipper-snapper" was another.
Nor were David's motives selfish or unworthy. His patients were hisfriends. He had a sense of responsibility to them, and very littlefaith in the new modern methods. He thought there was a great deal oftomfoolery about them, and he viewed the gradual loss of faith in drugswith alarm. When Dick wore rubber gloves during their first obstetriccase together he snorted.
"I've delivered about half the population of this town," he said, "andslapped 'em to make 'em breathe with my own bare hands. And I'm stillhere and so are they."
For by that time Dick had made his decision. He could not abandonDavid. For him then and hereafter the routine of a general practice in asuburban town, the long hours, the varied responsibilities, the feelinghe had sometimes that by doing many things passably he was doing none ofthem well. But for compensation he had old David's content and greaterleisure, and Lucy Crosby's gratitude and love.
Now and then he chafed a little when he read some article in a medicaljournal by one of his fellow enthusiasts, or when, in France, he sawmen younger than himself obtaining an experience in their severalspecialties that would enable them to reach wide fields at home. Butmostly he was content, or at least resigned. He was building up theLivingstone practice, and his one anxiety was lest the time should comewhen more patients asked for Doctor Dick than for Doctor David. He didnot want David hurt.
After ten years the strangeness of his situation had ceased to bestrange. Always he meant some time to go back to Norada, and there toclear up certain things, but it was a long journey, and he had verylittle time. And, as the years went on, the past seemed unimportantcompared with the present. He gave little thought to the future.
Then, suddenly, his entire attention became focused on the future.
Just when he had fallen in love with Elizabeth Wheeler he did not know.He had gone away to the war, leaving her a little girl, apparently, andhe had come back to find her, a woman. He did not even know he was inlove, at first. It was when, one day, he found himself driving past theWheeler house without occasion that he began to grow uneasy.
The future at once became extraordinarily important and so also, butsomewhat less vitally, the past. Had he the right to marry, if he couldmake her care for him?
He sat in his chair by the window the night after the Homer baby'sarrival, and faced his situation. Marriage meant many things. It meantlove and companionship, but it also meant, should mean, children. Had hethe right to go ahead and live his life fully and happily? Was thereany chance that, out of the years behind him, there would come someforgotten thing, some taint or incident, to spoil the carefully wovenfabric of his life?
Not his life. Hers.
On the Monday night after he had asked Elizabeth to go to the theaterhe went into David's office and closed the door. Lucy, alive to everymovement in the old house, heard him go in and, rocking in her chairoverhead, her hands idle in her lap, waited in tense anxiety for theinterview to end. She thought she knew what Dick would ask, and whatDavid would answer. And, in a way, David would be right. Dick, fine,lovable, upstanding Dick, had a right to the things other men had, tolove and a home of his own, to children, to his own full life.
But suppose Dick insisted on clearing everything up before he married?For to Lucy it was unthinkable that any girl in her senses would refusehim. Suppose he went back to Norada? He had not changed greatly in tenyears. He had been well known there, a conspicuous figure.
Her mind began to turn on the possibility of keeping him away fromNorada.
Some time later she heard the office door open and then close withDick's characteristic slam. He came up the stairs, two at a time aswas his custom, and knocked at her door. When he came in she saw whatDavid's answer had been, and she closed her eyes for an instant.
"Put on your things," he said gayly, "and we'll take a ride on thehill-tops. I've arranged for a moon."
And when she hesitated:
"It makes you sleep, you know. I'm going, if I have to ride alone andtalk to an imaginary lady beside me."
She rather imagined that that had been his first idea, modified by histhought of her. She went over and put a wrinkled hand on his arm.
"You look happy, Dick," she said wistfully.
"I am happy, Aunt Lucy," he replied, and bending over, kissed her.
On Wednesday he was in a state of alternating high spirits and periodsof silence. Even Minnie noticed it.
"Mr. Dick's that queer I hardly know how to take him." she said toLucy. "He came back and asked for noodle soup, and he put about all thehardware in the kitchen on him and said he was a knight in armor. Andwhen I took the soup in he didn't eat it."
It was when he was ready to go out that Lucy's fears were realized. Hecame in, as always when anything unusual was afoot, to let her look himover. He knew that she waited for him, to give his tie a final pat, toinspect the laundering of his shirt bosom, to pick imaginary threads offhis dinner coat.
"Well?" he said, standing before her, "how's this? Art can do no more,Mrs. Crosby."
"I'll brush your back," she said, and brought the brush. He stooped toher, according to the little ceremony she had established, and she madelittle dabs at his speckless back. "There, that's better."
He straightened.
"How do you think Uncle David is?" he asked, unexpectedly.
"Better than he has been in years. Why?"
"Because I'm thinking of taking a little trip. Only ten days," he added,seeing her face. "You could house-clean my office while I'm away. Youknow you've been wanting to."
She dropped the brush, and he stooped to pick it up. That gave her amoment.
"'Where?" she managed.
"To Dry River, by way of Norada."
"Why should you go back there?" she asked, in a carefully suppressedvoice. "Why don't you go East? You've wanted to go back to Johns Hopkinsfor months?"
"On the other hand, why shouldn't I go back to Norada?" he asked, withan affectation of lightness. Then he put his hand on her shoulders. "Whyshouldn't I go back and clear things up in my own mind? Why shouldn't Ifind out, for instance, that I am a free man?"
"You are free."
"I've got to know," he said, almost doggedly. "I can't take a chance. Ibelieve I am. I believe David, of course. But anyhow I'd like to see theranch. I want to see Maggie Donaldson."
"She's not at the ranch. Her husband died, you know."
"I have an idea I can find her," he said. "I'll make a good try,anyhow."
When he had gone she got her salts bottle and lay down on her bed. Herheart was hammering wildly.
Elizabeth was waiting for him in the living-room, in the midst ofher family. She looked absurdly young and very pretty, and he had amomentary misgiving that he was old to her, and that--Heaven save themark!--that she looked up to him. He considered the blue dress theheight of fashion and the mold of form, and having taken off hisovercoat in the hall, tried to put on Mr. Wheeler's instead in hisexcitement. Also, becoming very dignified after the overcoat incident,and making an exit which should conceal his wild exultation and showonly polite pl
easure, he stumbled over Micky, so that they finallydeparted to a series of staccato yelps.
He felt very hot and slightly ridiculous as he tucked Elizabeth intothe little car, being very particular about her feet, and startingwith extreme care, so as not to jar her. He had the feeling of beingentrusted temporarily with something infinitely precious, and very, verydear. Something that must never suffer or be hurt.