Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XXVIII

  The morning following Donald's admittance to the hospital, the companydoctor confirmed his original diagnosis that the patient was sufferingfrom an attack of typhoid fever. The disease had evidently been twoweeks incubating, for the woods boss reported that his superior hadcomplained of being "under the weather" for ten days before yieldingto the former's repeated advice to go down to Port Agnew and have thedoctor look him over. As a result of Donald's stubborn refusal toacknowledge his illness, the disease had reached a fair stage ofdevelopment by the time he received medical attention.

  He was not delirious when The Laird and Mrs. McKaye reached thehospital that morning, however, they were permitted to see him for buta few minutes only.

  "Has he a fighting chance?" old Hector demanded bluntly of the doctor.It seemed to him that his son's face already wore the look of onedoomed to dissolution at an early date.

  "Yes, he has, Mr. McKaye," the doctor replied gravely; "provided he'llfight. You will understand that in typhoid fever the mortality rate israther high--as high as thirty per cent. However, in the case ofDonald, who is a husky athlete, I should place the odds at about tento one that he'll survive an attack of even more than moderateseverity. That is," he added, "under the most favorable conditions."

  "Well, what's wrong with the conditions in this case?" The Lairddemanded crisply. "You can have anything you want--if you're shy onmaterial to work with, and I've sent for the best physician in thestate to come here and consult with you."

  "The hospital conditions are perfect, Mr. McKaye. What I mean is this:It is a well recognized principle of medical practice that a patientcombating a disease of extreme severity and high mortality issustained quite as much by his courage and a passionate desire to getwell--in a word, by his morale--as he is by his capacity for physicalresistance. Your son is, I think, slightly depressed mentally. That isthe sole reason I see to warrant apprehension."

  "Oh--so that's all, eh?" The Laird was relieved. "Then don't worryabout him. He'll put up a battle--never fear. Why, he never quit inall his life. However, in case he might need a bit of encouragementfrom his old daddy from time to time, you'll have a room made readyfor me. I'll stay here till he's out of danger."

  That was a terrible week on old Hector. The nurse, discovering thathis presence appeared to excite her patient, forbade him the room; sohe spent his days and part of his nights prowling up and down thecorridor, with occasional visits to the mill office and The Dreamerie,there to draw such comfort from Daney and his family as he might.While his temperature remained below a hundred and four, Donald wouldlie in a semi-comatose condition, but the instant the thermometercrept beyond that point he would commence to mutter incoherently.Suddenly, he would announce, so loudly The Laird could hear everyword, that he contemplated the complete and immediate destruction ofAndrew Daney and would demand that the culprit be brought before him.Sometimes he assumed that Daney was present, and the not unusualphenomenon attendant upon delirium occurred. When in good healthDonald never swore; neither would he tolerate rough language in hispresence from an employe; nevertheless, in his delirium he managed, atleast once daily, to heap upon the unfortunate Daney a generoushelping of invective of a quality that would have made a mule-skinnerblush. Sometimes Mr. Daney was unfortunate enough to drop in at thehospital in time to hear this stream of anathema sounding through thecorridor; upon such occasions he would go into The Laird's room and heand old Hector would eye each other grimly but say never a word.

  Having demolished Mr. Daney with a verbal broadside, Donald wouldappear to consider his enemy dead and direct his remarks to Nan Brent.He would reproach her tenderly for leaving Port Agnew withoutinforming him of her intention; he assured her he loved her, and thatunless she returned life would not be worth living. Sometimes he wouldcall upon old dead Caleb to reason with her in his behalf. About thattime he would be emerging from a Brand bath and, with the decline ofhis temperature, his mutterings and complaints gradually grewincoherent again and he would sleep.

  Thus two weeks passed. Donald showed no sign of the improvement whichshould ordinarily be looked for in the third week, and it was apparentto the doctors and nurses who attended him that the young Laird wasnot making a fight to get well--that his tremendous physicalresistance was gradually being undermined. His day-nurse it was whohad the courage, womanlike, to bring the matter to an issue.

  "He's madly in love with that Nan girl he's always raving about," shedeclared. "From all I can gather from his disconnected sentences, shehas left Port Agnew forever, and he doesn't know where she is. Now,I've seen men--little, weak men--recover from a worse attack oftyphoid than this big fellow has, and he ought to be on the up-gradenow, if ever--yet he's headed down-hill. About next week he's going tostart to coast, unless Nan Brent shows up to take him by the hand andlead him back up-hill. I believe she could do it--if she would."

  "I believe she could, also," the doctor agreed. "Perhaps you'venoticed that, although his family have listened to him rave about her,they have never given the slightest indication that they know what heis raving about. The girl's tabu, apparently."

  "The Laird appears to be a human being. Have you spoken to him aboutthis--Nan girl?"

  "I tried to--once. He looked at me--and I didn't try any more. Thefact is," the doctor added, lowering his voice, "I have a notion thatold Hector, through Daney, gave the girl money to leave the country."

  "If he knew what an important personage she is at this minute, he'dgive her more money to come back--if only just long enough to save hisson. Have you spoken to Mr. Daney?"

  "No; but I think I had better. He has a great deal of influence withThe Laird, and since I have no doubt they were in this conspiracytogether, Daney may venture to discuss with the old man theadvisability of bringing the girl back to Port Agnew."

  "If she doesn't appear on the scene within ten days--"

  "I agree with you. Guess I'll look up Mr. Daney."

  He did. Daney was at his desk in the mill office when the doctorentered and, without the least circumlocution, apprised him of thedesperate state to which Donald was reduced.

  "I tell you, Mr. Daney," he declared, and pounded Daney's desk toemphasize his statement, "everything that medical science can do forthat boy has been done, but he's slipping out from under us. Our lasthope lies in Nan Brent. If she can be induced to come to his bedside,hold his hand, and call him pet names when he's rational, he'll buckup and win out. There are no dangerous physical complications tocombat now. They are entirely mental."

  While the physician was speaking, Andrew Daney's face had graduallybeen taking on the general color-tones of a ripe old Edam cheese. Hischin slowly sagged on his breast; his lips parted in horror andamazement until, finally, his mouth hung open slackly, foolishly;presently, two enormous tears gathered in the corners of his eyes andcascaded slowly across his cheeks into his whiskers. He gripped thearms of his chair.

  "O God, forgive me!" he moaned. "The Laird doesn't know where she is,and neither do I. I induced her to go away, and she's lost somewherein the world. To find her now would be like searching a haystack for aneedle."

  "But you might telegraph a space-ad to every leading newspaper in thecountry. The Laird can afford to spend a million to find her--if shecan be found in a hurry. Why, even a telegram from her would help tobuck him up."

  But Andrew Daney could only sway in his chair and quiver with hisprofound distress.

  "The scandal!" he kept murmuring, "the damned scandal! I'll have to goto Seattle to send the telegrams. The local office would leak. Andeven if we found her and induced her to come back to save him,she'd--she'd have to go away again--and if she wouldn't--if hewouldn't permit her--why, don't you see how impossible a situation hasdeveloped? Man, can Donald McKaye wed Nan Brent of the Sawdust Pile?"

  "My interest in the case is neither sentimental nor ethical. It isentirely professional. It appears to me that in trying to save thisyoung fellow from the girl, you've signed his death warrant; now it isup to you to
save him from himself, and you're worrying because it maybe necessary later to save the girl from him or him from the girl.Well, I've stated the facts to you, and I tried to state them to TheLaird. Do as you think best. If the boy dies, of course, I'll swearthat he was doomed, anyhow, due to perforation of the intestines."

  "Yes, yes!" Daney gasped. "Let The Laird off as lightly as you can."

  "Oh, I'll lie cheerfully. By the way, who is this girl? I haven't beenin Port Agnew long enough to have acquired all the gossip. Is sheimpossible?"

  "She's had a child born out of wedlock."

  "Oh, then she's not a wanton?"

  "I'm quite sure she is not."

  "Well, I'll be damned! So that's all that's wrong with her, eh?" Likethe majority of his profession, this physician looked up such a_contretemps_ with a kindly and indulgent eye. In all probability,most of us would if we but knew as many of the secrets of men as doour doctors and lawyers.

  Long after the doctor had left him alone with his terrible problem,Mr. Daney continued to sit in his chair, legs and arms asprawl, chinon breast. From time to time, he cried audibly:

  "O Lord! O my God! What have I done? What shall I do? How shall I doit? O Lord!"

  He was quite too incoherent for organized prayer; nevertheless hisagonized cry to Omnipotence was, indeed, a supplication to which theLord must have inclined favorably, for, in the midst of his desolationand bewilderment, the door opened and Dirty Dan O'Leary presentedhimself.