Kindred of the Dust Read online

  IX

  During the week, Mary Daney refrained from broaching the subject ofthat uncomfortable Sunday afternoon, wherefore her husband realizedshe was thinking considerably about it and, as a result, was notaltogether happy. Had he suspected, however, the trend her thoughtswere taking, he would have been greatly perturbed. Momentous thoughtsrarely racked Mrs. Daney's placid and somewhat bovine brain, but onceshe became possessed with the notion that Nan Brent was the only humanbeing possessed of undoubted power to create or suppress a scandalwhich some queer feminine intuition warned her impended, the morefirmly did she become convinced that it was her Christian duty to callupon Nan Brent and strive to present the situation in a common-senselight to that erring young Woman.

  Having at length attained to this resolution, a subtle peace settledover Mrs. Daney, the result, doubtless, of a consciousness of virtueregained, since she was about to right a wrong to which she had sothoughtlessly been a party. Her decision had almost been reached whenher husband, coming home for luncheon at noon on Saturday, voiced theapprehension which had harassed him during the week.

  "Donald will be home from the woods to-night," he announced, introubled tones. "I do hope he'll not permit that big heart of his tolead him into further kindnesses that will be misunderstood bycertain people in case they hear of them. I have never known a man soproud and fond of a son as The Laird is of Donald."

  "Nonsense!" his wife replied complacently. "The Laird has forgottenall about it."

  "Perhaps. Nevertheless, he will watch his son, and if, by any chance,the boy should visit the Sawdust Pile--"

  "Then it will be time enough to worry about him, Andrew. In themeantime, it's none of our business, dear. Eat your luncheon and don'tthink about it."

  He relapsed into moody silence. When he had departed for the milloffice, however, his wife's decision had been reached. Within the hourshe was on her way to the Sawdust Pile, but as she approached CalebBrent's garden gate, she observed, with a feeling of gratification,that, after all, it was not going to be necessary for her to be seenentering the house or leaving it. Far up the strand she saw a womanand a little child sauntering.

  Nan Brent looked up at the sound of footsteps crunching the shingle,identified Mrs. Daney at a glance, and turned her head instantly, atthe same time walking slowly away at right angles, in order to obviatea meeting. To her surprise, Mrs. Daney also changed her course, andNan, observing this out of the corner of her eye, dropped her apronfulof driftwood and turned to face her visitor.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Brent. May I speak to you for a few minutes?"

  "Certainly, Mrs. Daney."

  Mrs. Daney nodded condescendingly and sat down on the white sand.

  "Be seated, Miss Brent, if you please."

  "Well, perhaps if we sit down, we will be less readily recognized at adistance." Nan replied smilingly, and was instantly convinced that shehad read her visitor's mind aright, for Mrs. Daney flushed slightly."Suppose," the girl suggested gently, "that you preface what you haveto say by calling me 'Nan.' You knew me well enough to call me that inan earlier and happier day, Mrs. Daney."

  "Thank you, Nan. I shall accept your invitation and dispense withformality." She hesitated for a beginning, and Nan, observing herslight embarrassment, was gracious enough to aid her by saying:

  "I dare say your visit has something to do with the unenviable socialposition in which I find myself in Port Agnew, Mrs. Daney, for Icannot imagine any other possible interest in me to account for it. Soyou may be quite frank. I'm sure nothing save a profound sense of dutybrought you here, and I am prepared to listen." This was a degree ofgraciousness the lady had not anticipated, and it put her at her easeimmediately.

  "I've called to talk to you about Donald McKaye," she began abruptly.

  "At the solicitation of whom?"

  "Nobody." Mrs. Daney sighed. "It was just an idea of mine."

  "Ah--I think I prefer it that way. Proceed, Mrs. Daney."

  "Young Mr. McKaye is unduly interested in you, Nan--at least, that isthe impression of a number of people in Port Agnew."

  "I object to the use of the adverb 'unduly' in connection with Mr.Donald's interest in my father and me. But no matter. Since Port Agnewhas no interest in me, pray why, Mrs. Daney, should I have theslightest interest in the impressions of these people you refer to andwhose volunteer representative you appear to be?"

  "There! I knew you would be offended!" Mrs. Daney cried, with adeprecatory shrug. "I'm sure I find this a most difficult matter todiscuss, and I assure you, I do not desire to appear offensive."

  "Well, you are; but I can stand it, and whether I resent it or notcannot be a matter of much import to you or the others. And I'll trynot to be disagreeable. Just why did you come to see me, Mrs. Daney?"

  "I might as well speak plainly, Miss Brent. Donald McKaye's action inridding the Sawdust Pile of your neighbors has occasioned comment. Itappears that this was his first official act after assuming hisfather's place in the business. Then he visited you and your fatherfor an hour, and your child, whom it appears you have named Donald,called him 'daddy.' Then, last Saturday night, Mr. McKaye sent oversome clothing for the boy--"

  "Whereupon the amateur detectives took up the trail," Nan interruptedbitterly. "And you heard of it immediately."

  "His father heard of it also," Mrs. Daney continued. "It worries him."

  "It should not. He should have more faith in his son, Mrs. Daney."

  "He is a father, my dear, very proud of his son, very devoted to him,and fearfully ambitious for Donald's future."

  "And you fear that I may detract from the radiance of that future? Isthat it?"

  "In plain English," the worthy lady replied brutally, "it is."

  "I see your point of view very readily, Mrs. Daney. Your apprehensionsare ridiculous--almost pathetic, Don McKaye's great sympathy is aloneresponsible for his hardihood in noticing me, and he is so much toobig for Port Agnew that it is no wonder his motives are misunderstood.However, I am sorry his father is worried. We have a very greatrespect for The Laird; indeed, we owe him a debt of gratitude, andthere is nothing my father or I would not do to preserve his peace ofmind."

  "The talk will die out, of course, unless something should occur torevive it, Miss Brent--I mean, Nan. But it would be just like DonaldMcKaye to start a revival of this gossip. He doesn't care a farthingfor what people think or say, and he is too young to realize that one_must_ pay _some_ attention to public opinion. You realize that, ofcourse."

  "I ought to, Mrs. Daney. I think I have had some experience of publicopinion," Nan replied sadly.

  "Then, should Donald McKaye's impulsive sympathy lead him to--er--"

  "You mean that I am to discourage him in the event--"

  "Precisely, Miss Brent. For his father's sake."

  "Not to mention your husband's position. Precisely, Mrs. Daney."

  Mary Daney's heart fluttered.

  "I have trusted to your honor, Nan--although I didn't say so in thebeginning--not to mention my visit or this interview to a livingsoul."

  "My 'honor!'" Nan's low, bitter laugh raked the Daney nerves like arasp. "I think, Mrs. Daney, that I may be depended upon to follow myown inclinations in this matter. I suspect you have been doing sometalking yourself and may have gone too far, with the result that youare hastening now, by every means in your power, to undo whateverharm, real or fancied, has grown out of your lack of charity."

  "Nan, I beg of you--"

  "Don't! You have no right to beg anything of me. I am notunintelligent and neither am I degraded. I think I possess a farkeener conception of my duty than do you or those whom you haveelected to represent; hence I regard this visit as an unwarrantedimpertinence. One word from me to Donald McKaye--"

  Terror smote the Samaritan. She clasped her hands; her lips were paleand trembling.

  "Oh, my dear, my dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't breathe a word tohim, would you? Promise me you'll say nothing. How could I face myhusband if--if--" She be
gan to weep.

  "I shall promise nothing," Nan replied sternly.

  "But I only came for his father's sake, you cruel girl!"

  "Perhaps his father's case is safer in my hands than in yours, Mrs.Daney, and safest of all in those of his son."

  The outcast of Port Agnew rose, filled her apron with the driftwoodshe had gathered, and called to her child. As the little fellowapproached, Mrs. Daney so far forgot her perturbation as to look athim keenly and decide, eventually, that he bore not the faintestresemblance to Donald McKaye.

  "I'm sure, Nan, you will not be heartless enough to tell Donald McKayeof my visit to you," she pleaded, as the girl started down the beach.

  "You have all the assurance of respectability, dear Mrs. Daney," Nananswered carelessly.

  "You shall not leave me until you promise to be silent!" Mary Daneycried hysterically, and rose to follow her.

  "I think you had better go, Mrs. Daney. I am quite familiar with thefigure of The Laird since his retirement; he walks round the bightwith his dogs every afternoon for exercise, and, if I am not greatlymistaken, that is he coming down the beach."

  Mrs. Daney cast a terrified glance in the direction indicated. A fewhundred yards up the beach she recognized The Laird, striding brisklyalong, swinging his stick, and with his two English setters rompingbeside him. With a final despairing "Please Nan; please do not becruel!" she fled, Nan Brent smiling mischievously after her stoutretreating form.

  "I have condemned you to the horrors of uncertainty," the girlsoliloquized. "How very, very stupid you are, Mrs. Daney, to warn meto protect him! As if I wouldn't lay down my life to uphold his honor!Nevertheless, you dear old bungling busybody, you are absolutelyright, although I suspect no altruistic reason carried you forth onthis uncomfortable errand."

  Nan had heretofore, out of the bitterness of her life, formed theopinion that brickbats were for the lowly, such as she, and bouquetssolely for the great, such as Donald McKaye. Now, for the first time,she realized that human society is organized in three strata--high,mediocre, and low, and that when a mediocrity has climbed to the seatsof the mighty, his fellows strive to drag him back, down to their ownignoble level--or lower. To Nan, child of poverty, sorrow, andsolitude, the world had always appeared more or less incomprehensible,but this afternoon, as she retraced her slow steps to the SawdustPile, the old dull pain of existence had become more complicated andacute with the knowledge that the first ray of sunlight that hadentered her life in three years was about to be withdrawn; and at thethought, tears, which seemed to well from her heart rather than fromher eyes, coursed down her cheeks and a sob broke through her clenchedlips.

  Her progress homeward, what with the heavy bundle of driftwood, in herapron impeding her stride, coupled with the necessity for frequentpauses to permit her child to catch up with her, was necessarilyslow--so slow, in fact, that presently she heard quick footstepsbehind her and, turning, beheld Hector McKaye. He smiled, lifted hishat, and greeted her pleasantly.

  "Good-afternoon, Miss Nan. That is a heavy burden of driftwood youcarry, my dear. Here--let me relieve you of it. I've retired, youknow, and the necessity for finding something to do--Bless my soul,the girl's crying!" He paused, hat in hand, and gazed at her withfrank concern. She met his look bravely.

  "Thank you, Mr. McKaye. Please do not bother about it."

  "Oh, but I shall bother," he answered. "Remove your apron, girl, andI'll tie the wood up in it and carry it home for you."

  Despite her distress, she smiled.

  "You're such an old-fashioned gentleman," she replied. "So very muchlike your son--I mean, your son is so very much like you."

  "That's better. I think I enjoy the compliment more when you put itthat way," he answered. "Do not stand there holding the wood, my girl.Drop it."

  She obeyed and employed her right hand, thus freed, in wiping thetelltale tears from her sweet face.

  "I have been lax in neighborly solicitude," The Laird continued. "Imust send you over a supply of wood from the box factory. We have morewaste than we can use in the furnaces. Is this your little man, Nan?Sturdy little chap, isn't he? Come here, bub, and let me heft you."

  He swung the child from the sands, and while pretending to considercarefully the infant's weight, he searched the cherubic countenancewith a swift, appraising glance.

  "Healthy little rascal," he continued, and swung the child high in theair two or three times, smiling paternally as the latter screamed withdelight. "How do you like that, eh?" he demanded, as he set the boydown on the sand again.

  "Dood!" the child replied, and gazing up at The Laird yearningly. "Areyou my daddy?"

  But The Laird elected to disregard the pathetic query and busiedhimself gathering up the bundle of driftwood, nor did he permit hisglance to rest upon Nan Brent's flushed and troubled face. Tucking thebundle under one arm and taking Nan's child on the other, he whistledto his dogs and set out for the Sawdust Pile, leaving the girl tofollow behind him. He preceded her through the gate, tossed thedriftwood on a small pile in the yard, and turned to hand her theapron.

  "You are not altogether happy, poor girl!" he said kindly. "I'm verysorry. I want the people in my town to be happy."

  "I shall grow accustomed to it, Mr. McKaye," Nan answered. "To-day, Iam merely a little more depressed than usual. Thank you so much forcarrying the wood. You are more than kind."

  His calm, inscrutable gray glance roved over her, noting her beautyand her sweetness, and the soul of him was troubled.

  "Is it something you could confide in an old man?" he queried gently."You are much neglected, and I--I understand the thoughts that mustcome to you sometimes. Perhaps you would be happier elsewhere than inPort Agnew."

  "Perhaps," she replied dully.

  "If you could procure work--some profession to keep your mind off yourtroubles--I have some property in Tacoma--suburban lots with cottageson them." The Laird grew confused and embarrassed because of thethought that was in the back of his mind, and was expressing himselfjerkily and in disconnected sentences. "I do not mean--I do not offercharity, for I take it you have had enough insults--well, you and yourfather could occupy one of those cottages at whatever you think youcould afford to pay, and I would be happy to advance you any funds youmight need until you--could--that is, of course, you must get on yourfeet again, and you must have help--" He waved his hand. "All thisoppresses me."

  The remembrance of Mrs. Daney's interview with her prompted the girlto flash back at him.

  "'Oppresses,' Mr. McKaye? Since when?"

  He gazed upon her in frank admiration for her audacity andperspicacity.

  "Yes," he admitted slowly; "I dare say I deserve that. Yet, mingledwith that ulterior motive you have so unerringly discerned, there is agenuine, if belated, desire to be decently human. I think you realizethat also."

  "I should be stupid and ungrateful did I not, Mr. McKaye. I am sorry Ispoke just now as I did, but I could not bear--"

  "To permit me to lay the flattering unction to my soul that I hadgotten away with something, eh?" he laughed, much more at his ease,now that he realized how frank and yet how tactful she could be.

  "It wasn't quite worthy of you--not because I might resent it, for Iam nobody, but because you should have more faith in yourself and beabove the possibility of disturbance at the hands--or rather, thetongues--of people who speak in whispers." She came close to himsuddenly and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, for she wasspeaking with profound earnestness. "I am your debtor, Mr. McKaye, forthat speech you found it so hard to make just now, and for pastkindnesses from you and your son. I cannot accept your offer. I wouldlike to, did my pride permit, and were it not for the fact that suchhappiness as is left to my father can only be found by the Bight ofTyee. So, while he lives I shall not desert him. As for yourapprehensions"--she smiled tolerantly and whimsically--"thoughflattering to me, they are quite unnecessary, and I beg you rid yourmind of them. I am--that which I am; yet I am more than I appear to beto some and I shall no
t wantonly or wilfully hurt you--or yours."

  The Laird of Tyee took in both of his the slim hand that rested solightly on his sleeve--that dainty left hand with the long, delicatefingers and no wedding ring.

  "My dear child," he murmured, "I feel more than I dare express.Good-by and may God bless you and be good to you, for I fear the worldwill not." He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her hand anddeparted; yet such was his knowledge of life that now his soul wasmore deeply troubled than it had been since his unintentionaleavesdropping on his manager's garrulous wife.

  "What a woman!" he reflected. "Brains, imagination, dignity, womanlypride, courage, beauty and--yes; I agree with Donald. Neither maid,wife nor widow is she--yet she is not, never has been, and never willbe a woman without virtue. Ah, Donald, my son, she's a bonny lass! Forall her fall, she's not a common woman and my son is not a commonman--I wonder--Oh, 'tis lies, lies, lies, and she's heard them andknows they're lies. Ah, my son, my son, with the hot blood of youth inyou--you've a man's head and heart and a will of your own--Aye, she'ssweet--that she is--I wonder!"