The morning following Donald's admittance to the hospital, the company
doctor confirmed his original diagnosis that the patient was suffering
from an attack of typhoid fever. The disease had evidently been two
weeks incubating, for the woods boss reported that his superior had
complained of being "under the weather" for ten days before yielding
to the former's repeated advice to go down to Port Agnew and have the
doctor look him over. As a result of Donald's stubborn refusal to
acknowledge his illness, the disease had reached a fair stage of
development by the time he received medical attention.
He was not delirious when The Laird and Mrs. McKaye reached the
hospital that morning, however, they were permitted to see him for but
a 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 one
doomed to dissolution at an early date.
"Yes, he has, Mr. McKaye," the doctor replied gravely; "provided he'll
fight. You will understand that in typhoid fever the mortality rate is
rather high--as high as thirty per cent. However, in the case of
Donald, who is a husky athlete, I should place the odds at about ten
to one that he'll survive an attack of even more than moderate
severity. That is," he added, "under the most favorable conditions."
"Well, what's wrong with the conditions in this case?" The Laird
demanded crisply. "You can have anything you want--if you're shy on
material to work with, and I've sent for the best physician in the
state 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 patient
combating a disease of extreme severity and high mortality is
sustained quite as much by his courage and a passionate desire to get
well--in a word, by his morale--as he is by his capacity for physical
resistance. Your son is, I think, slightly depressed mentally. That is
the sole reason I see to warrant apprehension."
"Oh--so that's all, eh?" The Laird was relieved. "Then don't worry
about him. He'll put up a battle--never fear. Why, he never quit in
all his life. However, in case he might need a bit of encouragement
from his old daddy from time to time, you'll have a room made ready
for me. I'll stay here till he's out of danger."
That was a terrible week on old Hector. The nurse, discovering that
his presence appeared to excite her patient, forbade him the room; so
he spent his days and part of his nights prowling up and down the
corridor, 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 would
lie in a semi-comatose condition, but the instant the thermometer
crept beyond that point he would commence to mutter incoherently.
Suddenly, he would announce, so loudly The Laird could hear every
word, that he contemplated the complete and immediate destruction of
Andrew Daney and would demand that the culprit be brought before him.
Sometimes he assumed that Daney was present, and the not unusual
phenomenon attendant upon delirium occurred. When in good health
Donald never swore; neither would he tolerate rough language in his
presence from an employe; nevertheless, in his delirium he managed, at
least once daily, to heap upon the unfortunate Daney a generous
helping of invective of a quality that would have made a mule-skinner
blush. Sometimes Mr. Daney was unfortunate enough to drop in at the
hospital in time to hear this stream of anathema sounding through the
corridor; upon such occasions he would go into The Laird's room and he
and old Hector would eye each other grimly but say never a word.
Having demolished Mr. Daney with a verbal broadside, Donald would
appear to consider his enemy dead and direct his remarks to Nan Brent.
He would reproach her tenderly for leaving Port Agnew without
informing him of her intention; he assured her he loved her, and that
unless she returned life would not be worth living. Sometimes he would
call upon old dead Caleb to reason with her in his behalf. About that
time he would be emerging from a Brand bath and, with the decline of
his temperature, his mutterings and complaints gradually grew
incoherent again and he would sleep.
Thus two weeks passed. Donald showed no sign of the improvement which
should ordinarily be looked for in the third week, and it was apparent
to the doctors and nurses who attended him that the young Laird was
not making a fight to get well--that his tremendous physical
resistance was gradually being undermined. His day-nurse it was who
had the courage, womanlike, to bring the matter to an issue.
"He's madly in love with that Nan girl he's always raving about," she
declared. "From all I can gather from his disconnected sentences, she
has 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 of
typhoid than this big fellow has, and he ought to be on the up-grade
now, if ever--yet he's headed down-hill. About next week he's going to
start to coast, unless Nan Brent shows up to take him by the hand and
lead him back up-hill. I believe she could do it--if she would."
"I believe she could, also," the doctor agreed. "Perhaps you've
noticed that, although his family have listened to him rave about her,
they have never given the slightest indication that they know what he
is raving about. The girl's tabu, apparently."
"The Laird appears to be a human being. Have you spoken to him about
this--Nan girl?"
"I tried to--once. He looked at me--and I didn't try any more. The
fact is," the doctor added, lowering his voice, "I have a notion that
old Hector, through Daney, gave the girl money to leave the country."
"If he knew what an important personage she is at this minute, he'd
give her more money to come back--if only just long enough to save his
son. Have you spoken to Mr. Daney?"
"No; but I think I had better. He has a great deal of influence with
The Laird, and since I have no doubt they were in this conspiracy
together, Daney may venture to discuss with the old man the
advisability 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 doctor
entered and, without the least circumlocution, apprised him of the
desperate state to which Donald was reduced.
"I tell you, Mr. Daney," he declared, and pounded Daney's desk to
emphasize his statement, "everything that medical science can do for
that boy has been done, but he's slipping out from under us. Our last
hope 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 buck
up and win out. There are no dangerous physical complications to
combat now. They are entirely mental."
While the physician was speaking, Andrew Daney's face had gradually
been taking on the general color-tones of a ripe old Edam cheese. His
chin slowly sagged on his breast; his lips parted in horror and
amazement until, finally, his mouth hung open slackly, foolishly;
presently, two enormous tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and
cascaded slowly across his cheeks into his whiskers. He gripped the
arms 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 somewhere
in the world. To find her now would be like searching a haystack for a
needle."
"But you might telegraph a space-ad to every leading newspaper in the
country. The Laird can afford to spend a million to find her--if she
can be found in a hurry. Why, even a telegram from her would help to
buck him up."
But Andrew Daney could only sway in his chair and quiver with his
profound distress.
"The scandal!" he kept murmuring, "the damned scandal! I'll have to go
to Seattle to send the telegrams. The local office would leak. And
even 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 he
wouldn't permit her--why, don't you see how impossible a situation has
developed? Man, can Donald McKaye wed Nan Brent of the Sawdust Pile?"
"My interest in the case is neither sentimental nor ethical. It is
entirely professional. It appears to me that in trying to save this
young fellow from the girl, you've signed his death warrant; now it is
up to you to save him from himself, and you're worrying because it may
be 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 The
Laird. Do as you think best. If the boy dies, of course, I'll swear
that 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 been
in Port Agnew long enough to have acquired all the gossip. Is she
impossible?"
"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?" Like
the 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 do
our 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, chin
on breast. From time to time, he cried audibly:
"O Lord! O my God! What have I done? What shall I do? How shall I do
it? O Lord!"
He was quite too incoherent for organized prayer; nevertheless his
agonized cry to Omnipotence was, indeed, a supplication to which the
Lord must have inclined favorably, for, in the midst of his desolation
and bewilderment, the door opened and Dirty Dan O'Leary presented
himself.