CHAPTER IV
It was a long time after O'Connor had gone before Kent at last fellasleep. It was a slumber weighted with the restlessness of a brainfighting to the last against exhaustion and the inevitable end. Astrange spirit seemed whirling Kent back through the years he hadlived, even to the days of his boyhood, leaping from crest to crest,giving to him swift and passing visions of valleys almost forgotten, ofhappenings and things long ago faded and indistinct in his memory.Vividly his dreams were filled with ghosts--ghosts that weretransformed, as his spirit went back to them, until they were riotouswith life and pulsating with the red blood of reality. He was a boyagain, playing three-old-cat in front of the little old red brickschoolhouse half a mile from the farm where he was born, and where hismother had died.
And Skinny Hill, dead many years ago, was his partner at thebat--lovable Skinny, with his smirking grin and his breath that alwayssmelled of the most delicious onions ever raised in Ohio. And then, atdinner hour, he was trading some of his mother's cucumber pickles forsome of Skinny's onions--two onions for a pickle, and never a change inthe price. And he played old-fashioned casino with his mother, and theywere picking blackberries together in the woods, and he killed overagain a snake that he had clubbed to death more than twenty years ago,while his mother ran away and screamed and then sat down and cried.
He had worshiped that mother, and the spirit of his dreams did not lethim look down into the valley where she lay dead, under a little whitestone in the country cemetery a thousand miles away, with his fatherclose beside her. But it gave him a passing thrill of the days in whichhe had fought his way through college--and then it brought him into theNorth, his beloved North.
For hours the wilderness was heavy about Kent. He moved restlessly, attimes he seemed about to awaken, but always he slipped back into theslumberous arms of his forests. He was on the trail in the cold, graybeginning of Winter, and the glow of his campfire made a radiant patchof red glory in the heart of the night, and close to him in that glowsat O'Connor. He was behind dogs and sledge, fighting storm; dark andmysterious streams rippled under his canoe; he was on the Big River,O'Connor with him again--and then, suddenly, he was holding a blazinggun in his hand, and he and O'Connor stood with their backs to a rack,facing the bloodthirsty rage of McCaw and his free-traders. The roar ofthe guns half roused him, and after that came pleasanter things--thedroning of wind in the spruce tops, the singing of swollen streams inSpringtime, the songs of birds, the sweet smells of life, the glory oflife as he had lived it, he and O'Connor. In the end, half betweensleep and wakefulness, he was fighting a smothering pressure on hischest. It was an oppressive and torturing thing, like the tree that hadfallen on him over in the Jackfish country, and he felt himselfslipping off into darkness. Suddenly there was a gleam of light. Heopened his eyes. The sun was flooding in at his window, and the weighton his chest was the gentle pressure of Cardigan's stethoscope.
In spite of the physical stress of the phantoms which his mind hasconceived, Kent awakened so quietly that Cardigan was not conscious ofthe fact until he raised his head. There was something in his facewhich he tried to conceal, but Kent caught it before it was gone. Therewere dark hollows under his eyes. He was a bit haggard, as though hehad spent a sleepless night. Kent pulled himself up, squinting at thesun and grinning apologetically. He had slept well along into the day,and--
He caught himself with a sudden grimace of pain. A flash of somethinghot and burning swept through his chest. It was like a knife. He openedhis mouth to breathe in the air. The pressure inside him was no longerthe pressure of a stethoscope. It was real.
Cardigan, standing over him, was trying to look cheerful. "Too much ofthe night air, Kent," he explained. "That will pass away--soon."
It seemed to Kent that Cardigan gave an almost imperceptible emphasisto the word "soon," but he asked no question. He was quite sure that heunderstood, and he knew how unpleasant for Cardigan the answer to itwould be. He fumbled under his pillow for his watch. It was nineo'clock. Cardigan was moving about uneasily, arranging the things onthe table and adjusting the shade at the window. For a few moments,with his back to Kent, he stood without moving. Then he turned, andsaid:
"Which will you have, Kent--a wash-up and breakfast, or a visitor?"
"I am not hungry, and I don't feel like soap and water just now. Who'sthe visitor? Father Layonne or--Kedsty?"
"Neither. It's a lady."
"Then I'd better have the soap and water! Do you mind telling me who itis?"
Cardigan shook his head. "I don't know. I've never seen her before. Shecame this morning while I was still in pajamas, and has been waitingever since. I told her to come back again, but she insisted that shewould remain until you were awake. She has been very patient for twohours."
A thrill which he made no effort to conceal leaped through Kent. "Isshe a young woman?" he demanded eagerly. "Wonderful black hair, blueeyes, wears high-heeled shoes just about half as big as your hand--andvery beautiful?"
"All of that," nodded Cardigan. "I even noticed the shoes, Jimmy. Avery beautiful young woman!"
"Please let her come in," said Kent. "Mercer scrubbed me last night,and I feel fairly fit. She'll forgive this beard, and I'll apologizefor your sake. What is her name?"
"I asked her, and she didn't seem to hear. A little later Mercer askedher, and he said she just looked at him for a moment and he froze. Sheis reading a volume of my Plutarch's 'Lives'--actually reading it. Iknow it by the way she turns the pages!"
Kent drew himself up higher against his pillows and faced the door whenCardigan went out. In a flash all that O'Connor had said swept backupon him--this girl, Kedsty, the mystery of it all. Why had she come tosee him? What could be the motive of her visit--unless it was to thankhim for the confession that had given Sandy McTrigger his freedom?O'Connor was right. She was deeply concerned in McTrigger and had cometo express her gratitude. He listened. Distant footsteps sounded in thehall. They approached quickly and paused outside his door. A hand movedthe latch, but for a moment the door did not open. He heard Cardigan'svoice, then Cardigan's footsteps retreating down the hall. His heartthumped. He could not remember when he had been so upset over anunimportant thing.