Kindred of the Dust

  XXI

  Upon his arrival in Port Agnew, Donald called upon one Sam Carew. Inhis youth, Mr. Carew had served his time as an undertaker's assistant,but in Port Agnew his shingle proclaimed him to his world as a"mortician." Owing to the low death-rate in that salubrious section,however, Mr. Carew added to his labors those of a carpenter, and whenoutside jobs of carpentering were scarce, he manufactured a few plainand fancy coffins.

  Donald routed Sam Carew out of bed with the news of Caleb Brent'sdeath and ordered him down to the Sawdust Pile in his capacity ofmortician; then he hastened there himself in advance of Mr. Carew. Nanwas in the tiny living-room, her head pillowed on the table, whenDonald entered, and when she had sobbed herself dry-eyed in his arms,they went in to look at old Caleb. He had passed peacefully away anhour after retiring for the night; Nan had straightened his limbs andfolded the gnarled hands over the still heart; in the great democracyof death, his sad old face had settled into peaceful lines such as hadbeen present in the days when Nan was a child and she and her fatherhad been happy building a home on the Sawdust Pile. As Donald lookedat him and reflected on the tremendous epics of a career that theworld regarded as commonplace, when he recalled the sloop old Calebhad built for him with so much pride and pleaure, the long-forgottenfishing trips and races in the bight, the wondrous tales the oldsailor had poured into his boyish ears, together with the affectionand profound respect, as for a superior being, which the old man hadalways held for him, the young laird of Tyee mingled a tear or twowith those of the orphaned Nan.

  "I've told Sam Carew to come for him," he informed Nan, when they hadreturned to the living-room. "I shall attend to all of the funeralarrangements. Funeral the day after to-morrow, say in the morning. Arethere any relatives to notify?"

  "None that would be interested, Donald."

  "Do you wish a religious service?"

  "Certainly not by the Reverend Tingley."

  "Then I'll get somebody else. Anything else? Money, clothes?"

  She glanced at him with all the sweetness and tenderness of her greatlove lambent in her wistful sea-blue eyes.

  "What a poor thing is pride in the face of circumstances," she replieddrearily. "I haven't sufficient strength of character to send youaway. I ought to, for your own sake, but since you're the only onethat cares, I suppose you'll have to pay the price. You might lend mea hundred dollars, dear. Perhaps some-day I'll repay it."

  He laid the money in her hand and retained the hand in his; thus theysat gazing into the blue flames of the driftwood fire--she hopelessly,he with masculine helplessness. Neither spoke, for each was busy withpersonal problems.

  The arrival of Mr. Carew interrupted their sad thoughts. When he haddeparted with the harvest of his grim profession, the thought that hadbeen uppermost in Donald's mind found expression.

  "It's going to be mighty hard on you living here alone."

  "It's going to be hard on me wherever I live--alone," she repliedresignedly.

  "Wish I could get some woman to come and live with you until we canadjust your affairs, Nan. Tingley's wife's a good sort. Perhaps--"

  She shook her head.

  "I prefer my own company--when I cannot have yours."

  A wave of bitterness, of humiliation swept over him in the knowledgethat he could not ask one of his own sisters to help her. Truly hedwelt in an unlovely world.

  He glanced at Nan again, and suddenly there came over him a greatyearning to share her lot, even at the price of sharing her shame. Hewas not ashamed of her, and she knew it; yet both were fearful ofrevealing that fact to their fellow mortals. The conviction stole overDonald McKaye that he was not being true to himself, that he was not aman of honor in the fullest sense or a gentleman in the broadestmeaning of the word. And that, to the heir of a principality, was adangerous thought.

  He then took tender leave of the girl and walked all the way home. Hisfather had not retired when he reached The Dreamerie, and the sight ofthat stern yet kindly and wholly understandable person moved him tosit down beside The Laird on the divan and take the old man's hand inhis childishly.

  "Dad, I'm in hell's own hole!" he blurted. "I'm so unhappy!"

  "Yes, son; I know you are. And it breaks me all up to think that, forthe first time in my life, I can't help you. All the money in theworld will not buy the medicine that'll cure you."

  "I have to go through that, too, I suppose," his son complained, andjerked his head toward the stairs, where, as a matter of fact, hissister Jane crouched at the time, striving to eavesdrop. "I had anotion, as I walked home, that I'd refuse to permit them to discuss mybusiness with me."

  "This particular business of yours is, unfortunately, something whichthey believe to be their business, also. God help me, I agree withthem!"

  "Well, they had better be mighty careful how they speak of Nan Brent,"Donald returned darkly. "This is something I have to fight out alone.By the way, are you going to old Caleb's funeral, dad?"

  "Certainly. I have always attended the funerals of my neighbors, and Iliked and respected Caleb Brent. Always reminded me of a lost dog. Buthe had a man's pride. I'll say that for him."

  "Thank you, father. Ten o'clock, the day after to-morrow, from thelittle chapel. There isn't going to be a preacher present, so I'd beobliged if you'd offer a prayer and read the burial service. That oldman and I were pals, and I want a real human being to preside at hisobsequies."

  The Laird whistled softly. He was on the point of asking to beexcused, but reflected that Donald was bound to attend the funeral andthat his father's presence would tend to detract from the personalside of the unprecedented spectacle and render it more of a matter offamily condescension in so far as Port Agnew was concerned.

  "Very well, lad," he replied; "I'm forced to deny you so much 'twouldbe small of me not to grant you a wee favor now and then. I'll do mybest. And you might send a nurse from the company hospital to staywith Nan for a week or two."

  "Good old file!" his son murmured gratefully, and, bidding his fathergood-night, climbed the stairs to his room. Hearing his footstepsascending, Jane emerged from the rear of the landing; simultaneously,his mother and Elizabeth appeared at the door of the latter's room. Hehad the feeling of a captured missionary running the gantlet of aforest of spears _en route_ to a grill over a bed of coals.

  "Donald dear," Elizabeth called throatily, "come here."

  "Donald dear is going to bed," he retorted savagely. "'Sufficient untothe day is the evil thereof.' Good-night!"

  "But you _must_ discuss this matter with us!" Jane clamored. "How canyou expect us to rest until we have your word of honor that you--"

  The Laird had appeared at the foot of the stairs, having followed hisson in anticipation of an interview which he had forbidden.

  "Six months, Janey," he called up; "and there'll be no appeal fromthat decision. Nellie! Elizabeth! Poor Jane will be lonesome in PortAgnew, and I'm not wishful to be too hard on her. You'll keep hercompany." There was a sound of closing doors, and silence settledover The Dreamerie, that little white home that The Laird of Tyee hadbuilt and dedicated to peace and love. For he was the master here.