VII
An unerring knowledge of men in general and of his own son inparticular indicated to Hector McKaye, upon the instant that thelatter appeared at the family dinner-table, that his son's first dayin command had had a sobering effect upon that young man. He had goneforth that morning whistling, his eyes alert with interest andanticipation; and a feeling of profound contentment had come to TheLaird as he watched Donald climb into his automobile and go brisklydown the cliff highway to Port Agnew. Here was no unwilling exile,shackled by his father's dollars to a backwoods town and condemned tolabor for the term of his natural life. Gladly, eagerly, it seemed toHector McKaye, his son was assuming his heritage, casting aside,without one longing backward glance, a brighter, busier, and moredelightful world.
Although his son's new arena of action was beautiful and The Lairdloved it with a passionate love, he was sufficiently imaginative torealize that, in Port Agnew, Donald might not be as happy as had beenhis father. Old Hector was sufficiently unselfish to have harbored noresentment had this been so. It had been his one anxiety that Donaldmight take his place in the business as a matter of duty to himselfrather than as a duty to his father, and because he had found hislifework and was approaching it with joy, for The Laird wasphilosopher enough to know that labor without joy is as dead-seafruit. Indeed, before the first day of his retirement had passed, hehad begun to suspect that joy without labor was apt to be somethingless than he had anticipated.
The Laird observed in his son's eyes, as the latter took his place attable, a look that had not been there when Donald left for the millthat morning. His usually pleasant, "Evening, folks!" was perfunctoryto-night; he replied briefly to the remarks addressed to him by hismother and sisters; the old man noted not less than thrice a slightpause with the spoon half-way to his mouth, as if his son consideredsome problem more important than soup. Mrs. McKaye and the girlschattered on, oblivious of these slight evidences of mentalperturbation, but as The Laird carved the roast (he delighted incarving and serving his family, and was old-fashioned enough to insistupon his right, to the distress of the girls, who preferred to havethe roast carved in the kitchen and served by the Japanese butler), hekept a contemplative eye upon his son, and presently saw Donald heavea slight sigh.
"Here's a titbit you always liked, son!" he cried cheerfully, anddeftly skewered from the leg of lamb the crisp and tender tail."Confound you, Donald; I used to eat these fat, juicy little lamb'stails while you were at college, but I suppose, now, I'll have tosurrender that prerogative along with the others." In an effort to becheerful and distract his son's thoughts, he attempted this homelybadinage.
"I'll give you another little tale in return, dad," Donald replied,endeavoring to meet his father's cheerful manner. "While we were away,a colony of riffraff from Darrow jumped old Caleb Brent's SawdustPile, and Daney was weak enough to let them get away with it. I'msomewhat surprised. Daney knew your wishes in the matter; if he hadforgotten them, he might have remembered mine, and if he had forgottenboth, it would have been the decent thing to have thrown them out onhis own responsibility."
So that was what lay at the bottom of his son's perturbation! TheLaird was relieved.
"Andrew's a good man, but he always needed a leader, Donald," hereplied. "If he didn't lack initiative, he would have been his own manlong ago. I hope you did not chide him for it, lad."
"No; I did not. He's old enough to be my father, and, besides, he'sbeen in the Tyee Lumber Company longer than I. I did itch to give hima rawhiding, though."
"I saw smoke and excitement down at the Sawdust Pile this morning,Donald. I dare say you rectified Andrew's negligence."
"I did. The Sawdust Pile is as clean as a hound's tooth."
Jane looked up from her plate.
"I hope you sent that shameless Brent girl away, too," she announced,with the calm attitude of one whose own virtue is above reproach.
Donald glared at her.
"Of course I did not!" he retorted. "How thoroughly unkind anduncharitable of you, Jane, to hope I would be guilty of such a crueland unmanly action!"
The Laird waved his carving-knife.
"Hear, hear!" he chuckled. "Spoken like a man, my son. Jane, my dear,if I were you, I wouldn't press this matter further. It's a delicatesubject."
"I'm sure I do not see why Jane should not be free to express heropinion, Hector." Mrs. McKaye felt impelled to fly to the defense ofher daughter. "You know as well as we do, Hector, that the Brent girlis quite outside the pale of respectable society."
"We shall never agree on what constitutes 'respectable society,'Nellie," The Laird answered whimsically. "There are a few in thatSeattle set of yours I find it hard to include in that category."
"Oh, they're quite respectable, father," Donald protested.
"Indeed they are, Donald! Hector, you amaze me," Mrs. McKaye chided.
"They have too much money to be anything else," Donald added, andwinked at his father.
"Tush, tush, lad!" the old man murmured. "We shall get nowhere withsuch arguments. The world has been at that line of conversation fortwo thousand years, and the issue's still in doubt. Nellie, will youhave a piece of the well-done?"
"You and your father are never done joining forces against me," Mrs.McKaye protested, and in her voice was the well-known note thatpresaged tears should she be opposed further. The Laird, all toofamiliar with this truly feminine type of tyranny, indicated to hisson, by a lightning wink, that he desired the conversation divertedinto other channels, whereupon Donald favored his mother with adisarming smile.
"I'm going to make a real start to-morrow morning, mother," heannounced brightly. "I'm going up in the woods and be a lumberjack fora month. Going to grow warts on my hands and chew tobacco and developinto a brawny roughneck."
"Is that quite necessary?" Elizabeth queried, with a slight elevationof her eyebrows. "I understood you were going to manage the business."
"I am--after I've learned it thoroughly, Lizzie."
"Don't call me 'Lizzie,'" she warned him irritably.
"Very well, Elizabeth."
"In simple justice to those people from Darrow that you evicted fromthe Sawdust Pile, Don, you should finish your work before you go. Ifthey were not fit to inhabit the Sawdust Pile, then neither is NanBrent. You've got to play fair." Jane had returned to the attack.
"Look here, Jane," her brother answered seriously: "I wish you'dforget Nan Brent. She's an old and very dear friend of mine, and I donot like to hear my friends slandered."
"Oh, indeed!" Jane considered this humorous, and indulged herself in acynical laugh.
"Friend of his?" Elizabeth, who was regarded in her set as a wit, areputation acquired by reason of the fact that she possessed a certainknack for adapting slang humorously (for there was no originality toher alleged wit), now bent her head and looked at her brotherincredulously. "My word! That's a rich dish."
"Why, Donald dear," his mother cried reproachfully, "surely you arejesting!"
"Not at all. Nan Brent isn't a bad girl, even if she is the mother ofa child born out of wedlock. She stays at home and minds her ownbusiness, and lets others mind theirs."
"Donald's going to be tragic. See if he isn't," Elizabeth declared."Come now, old dear; if Nan Brent isn't a bad woman, just what is youridea of what constitutes badness in a woman? It would be interestingto know your point of view."
"Nan Brent was young, unsophisticated, poor, and trusting when she metthis fellow, whoever he may be. He wooed her, and she loved him--orthought she did, which amounts to the same thing until one discoversthe difference between thinking and feeling. At first, she thought shewas married to him. Later, she discovered she was not--and then it wastoo late."
"It wouldn't have been too late with some--er--good people," The Lairdremarked meaningly.
"In other words," Donald went on, "Nan Brent found herself out onthe end of a limb, and then the world proceeded to saw off the limb.It is true that she is the mother of an illegitimate child, butif tha
t child was not--at least in so far as its mother _is_concerned--conceived in sin, I say it isn't illegitimate, and thatits mother is not a bad woman."
"Granted--if it's true; but how do you know it to be true?" Janedemanded. She had a feeling that she was about to get the better ofher brother in this argument.
"I do not _know_ it to be true, Jane."
"_Voila!"_
"But--I believe it to be true, Jane."
"Why?"
"Because Nan told her father it was true, and old Caleb told me when Iwas at his house this morning. So I believe it. And I knew Nan Brentwhen she was a young girl, and she was sweet and lovely and virtuous.I talked with her this morning, and found no reason to change myprevious estimate of her. I could only feel for her a profound pity."
"'Pity is akin to love,'" Elizabeth quoted gaily. "Mother, keep an eyeon your little son. He'll be going in for settlement-work in PortAgnew first thing we know."
"Hush, Elizabeth!" her mother cried sharply. She was highlyscandalized at such levity. The Laird salted and peppered his food andsaid nothing. "Your attitude is very manly and sweet, dear," Mrs.McKaye continued, turning to her son, for her woman's intuition warnedher that, if the discussion waxed warmer, The Laird would take a handin it, and her side would go down to inglorious defeat, theirarguments flattened by the weight of Scriptural quotations. She had afeeling that old Hector was preparing to remind them of Mary Magdalenand the scene in the temple. "I would much rather hear you speak agood word for that unfortunate girl than have you condemn her."
"A moment ago," her son reminded her, with some asperity, for he wassorely provoked, "you were demanding the right of free speech forJane, in order that she might condemn her. Mother, I fear me you'renot quite consistent."
"We will not discuss it further, dearie. It is not a matter of suchimportance that we should differ to the point of becoming acrimonious.Besides, it's a queer topic for dinner-table conversation."
"So say we all of us," Elizabeth struck in laconically. "Dad, will youplease help me to some of the well-done?"
"Subjects," old Hector struck in, "which, twenty years ago, only thefamily doctor was supposed to be familiar with or permitted to discussare now being agitated in women's clubs, books, newspapers, and thepublic schools. You can't smother sin or the facts of life unless theyoccur separately. In the case of Nan Brent they have developedcoincidently; so we find it hard to regard her as normal and human."
"Do you condone her offense, Hector?" Mrs. McKaye demandedincredulously.
"I am a firm believer in the sacredness of marriage, I cannot conceiveof a civilization worth while without it," The Laird declaredearnestly. "Nevertheless, while I know naught of Nan Brent's case,except that which is founded on hearsay evidence, I can condone heroffense because I can understand it. She might have developed into afar worse girl than it appears from Donald's account she is. At least,Nellie, she bore her child and cherishes it, and, under the rules ofsociety as we play it, that required a kind of courage in which agreat many girls are deficient. Give her credit for that."
"Apparently she has been frank," Elizabeth answered him coolly. "Onthe other hand, father McKaye, her so-called courage may have beenignorance or apathy or cowardice or indifference. It all depends onher point of view."
"I disagree with mother that it is not a matter of importance," Donaldpersisted. "It is a matter of supreme importance to me that my motherand sisters should not feel more charity toward an unfortunate memberof their sex; and I happen to know that it is a matter of terribleimportance to Nan Brent that in Port Agnew people regard her asunclean and look at her askance. And because that vacillating oldDaney didn't have the courage to fly in the face of Port Agnew'srotten public opinion, he subjected Nan Brent and her helpless oldfather to the daily and nightly association of depraved people. If_he_ should dare to say one word against"
"Oh, it wasn't because Andrew was afraid of public opinion, lad,"Hector McKaye interrupted him dryly. "Have you no power o'deduction?Twas his guid wife that stayed his hand, and well I know it."
"I dare say, dad," Donald laughed. "Yes; I suppose I'll have toforgive him."
"She'll be up to-morrow, my dear, to discuss the matter with you," TheLaird continued, turning to his wife. "I know her well. Beware ofexpressing an opinion to her." And he bent upon all the women of hishousehold a smoldering glance.
Apparently, by mutual consent, the subject was dropped forthwith.Donald's silence throughout the remainder of the meal was portentous,however, and Mrs. McKaye and her daughters were relieved when, themeal finished at last, they could retire with good grace and leavefather and son to their cigars.
"Doesn't it beat hell?" Donald burst forth suddenly, apropos ofnothing.
"It does, laddie."
"I wonder why?"
The Laird was in a philosophical mood. He weighed his answercarefully.
"Because people prefer to have their thoughts manufactured for them;because fanatics and hypocrites have twisted the heart out of theChristian religion in the grand scramble for priority in the 'Who'sHolier than Who' handicap; because people who earnestly believe thatGod knows their inmost thoughts cannot refrain from being human andtrying to put one over on Him." He smoked in silence for a minute, hiscalm glance on the ceiling. "Now that you are what you are, my son,"he resumed reflectively, "you'll begin to know men and women. They whonever bothered to seek your favor before will fight for it now--theydo the same thing with God Almighty, seeking to win his favor byoutdoing him in the condemnation of sin. A woman's virtue, lad, is hermain barricade against the world; in the matter of that, women are aclose corporation. Man, how they do stand together! Their virtue's theshell that protects them, and when one of them leaves her shell orloses it, the others assess her out of the close corporation, forshe's a minority stockholder."
"Mother and the girls are up to their eyebrows in the work of anorganization in Seattle designed to salvage female delinquents,"Donald complained. "I can't understand their attitude."
Old Hector hooted.
"They don't do the salvaging. Not a bit of it! That unpleasant work isleft to others, and the virtuous and respectable merely pay for it.Ken ye not, boy, 'twas ever the habit of people of means to patronizeand coddle the lowly. If they couldn't do that, where would be the funof being rich? Look in the Seattle papers. Who gets the advertisingout of a charity ball if it isn't the rich? They organize it and theyput it over, with the public paying for a look at them, and theyattending the ball on complimentary tickets, although I will admitthat when the bills are paid and the last shred of social triumph hasbeen torn from the affair, the Bide-a-Wee Home for Unmarried Motherscan have what's left--and be damned to them."
Donald laughed quietly.
"Scotty, you're developing into an iconoclast. If your fellowplutocrats should hear you ranting in that vein, they'd call you asocialist."
"Oh, I'm not saying there aren't a heap of exceptions. Many's thewoman with a heart big enough to mother the world, although, whenall's said and done; 'tis the poor that are kind to the poor, theunfortunate that can appreciate and forgive misfortune. I'm glad youstood by old Brent and his girl," he added approvingly.
"I intend to accord her the treatment which a gentleman always accordsthe finest lady in the land, dad."
"Or the lowest, my son. I've noticed that kind are not altogetherunpopular with our finest gentlemen. Donald, I used to pray to Godthat I wouldn't raise a fool. I feel that he's answered my prayers,but if you should ever turn hypocrite, I'll start praying again."