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Page 114
"Don remembers too."
Joan sighed.
"He worries me, Kenny--Don, I mean. Sometimes I think he sees in my
help the one atonement he can make: he fumes and reproaches so when
Brian is nervous or lonely. He even dreams of the boulder."
"And the year of study, mavourneen?"
Joan's face clouded.
"Don needs me," she said. "He would be frantic here alone. I cannot
desert him."
"Nor I," said Kenny. "But the year of waiting ends at Samhain."
"Yes," said Joan, coloring. "I have given Don the money," she added.
"If now he would only study!"
"He shall!" said Kenny and set himself to the finishing of Brian's
winter task. That sacrifice, at least, he decided, nagging Don into
hours of study that were a godsend to them both, should not become an
anticlimax. He had paid once--in ragged money. For Joan's sake he
would pay willingly again in time. Brian and Joan and Don--and he
himself, with indolence for once in his life unwelcome, would be
happier for the effort. But there were moments of clash and irritation
when Don's energy flagged and he flung his books aside in black disgust.
"No use," he said moodily. "I can't work. I've got too much on my
mind."
Kenny merely looked at him.
Don flushed.
"Mr. O'Neill," he barked.
"Shut up!" thundered Kenny, "I don't propose to quarrel now or at any
other time."
They glared at each other in nervous indignation.
"Brian," Kenny added with a sniff, "was sure you could swing it. I
never was. You need balance and a sense of responsibility."
Don gritted his teeth and worked in an inexhaustible spurt of endurance.
"Stop wandering around the room and kicking things," Kenny commanded
more than once with his own hand clenched in his hair. "If you don't
remember, you don't remember, and that's an end of it. Here's the
book. Look it over while I'm smoking."
Once when the clash had a suspicious ring of familiarity, he grinned.
"What's the matter?" demanded Don huffily. "What are you laughing at?
Me?"
"No," said Kenny. "I was just thinking of a man I know. Name's
Whitaker."
Thus May came with a warm wind of spice and fresh misgivings furrowed
the doctor's brow.
"Now that the windows are opened so much," he fretted, "the rumble of
that quarry is inferno. The blasts bother him?"
"He jumps," said Joan.
"I thought so. He must have peace and quiet. If Mr. O'Neill is
willing, we'll move him to the farm."
By the time the orchard flung out its white prayer of blossoms to the
sun, the doctor had his patient at the farm.
And summer dreamed again upon the hills.
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