VIII
Donald left the following morning in the automobile for thelogging-camps up-river, and because of his unfamiliarity with theirpresent location, his father's chauffeur drove him up. He was to begone all week, but planned to return Saturday afternoon to spendSunday with his family.
As the car wound up the narrow river road, Donald found himselfthinking of Nan Brent and her tragedy. Since his visit to the SawdustPile the day before, two pictures of her had persisted in his memory,every detail of both standing forth distinctly.
In the first, she was a shabby, barelegged girl of thirteen, standingin the cockpit of his sloop, holding the little vessel on its coursewhile he and old Caleb took a reef in the mainsail. The wilderness ofgold that was her uncared-for hair blew behind her like a sunnyburgee; her sea-blue eyes were fixed on the mainsail, out of which sheadroitly spilled the wind at the proper moment, in order that Donaldand her father might haul the reef-points home and make them fast. Inhis mind's eye, he could see the pulse beating in her throat as theyprepared to come about, for on such occasions she always becameexcited; he saw again the sweet curve of her lips and her upliftedchin; he heard again her shrill voice crying, "Ready, about!" and sawthe spokes spin as she threw the helm over and crouched from theswinging boom, although it cleared her pretty head by at least threefeet. He listened again to her elfin laugh as she let the sloop falloff sufficiently to take the lip of a comber over the starboardcounter and force Donald and her father to seek shelter from the sprayin the lee of the mainsail, from which sanctuary, with more laughter,she presently routed them by causing the spray to come in over theport counter.
The other picture was the pose in which he had seen her the morningprevious at the Sawdust Pile, when, to hide her emotion, she had halfturned from him and gazed so forlornly out across the Bight of Tyee.It had struck him then, with peculiar force, that Nan Brent neveragain would laugh that joyous elfin laugh of other days. He had seenthe pulse beating in her creamy neck again--a neck fuller, rounder,glorious with the beauty of fully developed womanhood. And the riot ofgolden hair was subdued, with the exception of little wayward wispsthat whipped her white temples. Her eyes, somewhat darker now, likethe sea near the horizon after the sun has set but while the glory ofthe day still lingers, were bright with unshed tears. The sweet curvesof her mouth were drawn in pain. The northwest trade-wind blowingacross the bight had whipped her gingham dress round her, revealingthe soft curves of a body, the beauty of which motherhood hadintensified rather than diminished. Thus she had stood, the outcast ofPort Agnew, and beside her the little badge of her shame, demandingthe father he had never known and would never see.
The young laird of Tyee wondered what sort of man could have done thisthing--this monumental wickedness. His great fists were clenched asthere welled within him a black rage at the scoundrel who had sowantonly wrecked that little home on the Sawdust Pile. He wondered,with the arrogance of his years, assuming unconsciously the right ofspecial privilege, if Nan would ever reveal to him the identity of thevillain. Perhaps, some day, in a burst of confidence, she might. Evenif she did tell him, what could he do? To induce the recreant lover tomarry her openly and legally would, he knew, be the world's way of"righting the wrong" and giving the baby a name, but the mischief hadbeen done too long, and could never be undone unless, indeed, amarriage certificate, with proper dating, could be flaunted in theface of an iconoclastic and brutal world. Even then, there wouldremain that astute and highly virtuous few who would never cease toimpart in whispers the information that, no matter what others mightthink, _they_ had their doubts. He was roused from his bittercogitations by the chauffeur speaking.
"This is Darrow, Mr. Donald. I don't believe you've seen it, have you?Darrow put in his mill and town while you were away."
Donald looked over the motley collection of shacks as the automobilerolled down the single unpaved street.
"Filthy hole," he muttered. "Hello! There's one of my late friendsfrom the Sawdust Pile."
A woman, standing in the open door of a shanty on the outskirts of thetown had made a wry face and thrust out her tongue at him. He liftedhis hat gravely, whereat she screamed a curse upon him. An instantlater, an empty beer-bottle dropped with a crash in the tonneau, andDonald, turning, beheld in the door of a Darrow groggery one of theGreek fishermen He had dispossessed.
"Stop the car!" Donald commanded. "I think that man wants to discuss amatter with me."
"Sorry, sir, but I don't think it's wise to obey you just now," hisfather's chauffeur answered, and trod on the accelerator. "They callthat place the 'Bucket of Blood,' and you'll need something more thanyour fists if you expect to enter there and come out under your ownpower."
"Very well. Some other time, perhaps."
"You don't appear to be popular in Darrow, Mr. Donald."
"Those people left the Sawdust Pile yesterday--in a hurry," Donaldexplained. "Naturally, they're still resentful."
"They were making quite a little money down there, I believe. Folks dosay business was good, and when you take money from that kind ofcattle you make a worth-while enemy. If I were you, sir, I'd watch mystep in dark alleys, and I'd carry a gun."
"When I have to carry a gun to protect myself from vermin like thatmulatto and those shifty little Greeks, I'll be a few years older thanI am now, Henry. However, I suppose I'd be foolish to neglect yourwarning to mind my step."
He spent a busy week in the woods, and it was his humor to spend itentirely felling trees. The tough, experienced old choppers welcomedhim with keen interest and played freeze-out each night in thebunk-houses to see which one should draw him for a partner next day;for the choppers worked in pairs, likewise the cross-cut men. Theirbucolic sense of humor impelled the choppers to speed up when theyfound themselves paired with the new boss, for it would have been afeather in the cap of the man who could make him quit or send him homeat nightfall "with his tail dragging," as the woods boss expressed it.
Donald sported a wondrous set of blisters at the close of that firstday, but after supper he opened them, covered them with adhesive tape,and went back to work next morning as if nothing had happened. Duringthose five days, he learned considerable of the art of dropping a treeexactly where he desired it, and bringing it to earth withoutbreakage. He rode down to Port Agnew with the woods crew on the lastlog-train Saturday night, walked into the mill office, and cashed inhis time-slip for five days' work as a chopper. He had earned twodollars a day and his board and lodging. His father, who had driveninto town to meet him, came to the window and watched him humorously.
"So that's the way you elect to work it, eh?" he queried. "I toldDaney to pay you my salary when I quit."
"I like to feel that I'm earning my stipend," Donald replied, "so itpleases me to draw the wages of the job I'm working at. When I'mthoroughly acquainted with all the jobs in the Tyee Lumber Company, orat least have a good working knowledge of them, I think I'll be abetter boss."
The Laird took his son's big brown hands in his and looked at thepalms.
"I rather think I like it so," he answered. "A man whose hands havenever bled or whose back has never ached is a poor man to judge alabor dispute. 'Twould improve you if you were a married man and hadto live on that for a week, less twenty-five cents for your hospitaldues. The choppers pay a dollar a month toward the hospital, and thatcovers medical attendance for them and their families."
Donald laughed and flipped a quarter over to the cashier, then turnedand handed ten dollars to a wiry little chopper standing in line.
"I was feeling so good this morning I bet Sandy my week's pay I couldfell a tree quicker than he and with less breakage. He won in a walk,"he explained to The Laird.
"Come with me," his father ordered, and led him into the office.
From the huge safe he selected a ledger, scanned the index, and openedit at a certain account headed, "Sandy dough." To Sandy's credit eachmonth, extending over a period of fifteen years, appeared a credit ofthirty dollars.
"That's what it's costing me to have discovered Sandy," his fatherinformed him; "but since I had served an apprenticeship as a chopper,the time required to discover Sandy was less than half an hour, Iwatched him one day when he didn't know who I was--so I figured himfor a man and a half and raised him a dollar a day. He doesn't knowit, however. If he did, he'd brag about it, and I'd have to pay asmuch to men half as good. When he's chopped for us twenty years, firehim and give him that. He's earned it. Thus endeth the first lesson,my son. Now come home to dinner."
After dinner, Donald returned to town to buy himself someworking-clothes at the general store. His purchases completed, hesought the juvenile department.
"I want some kid's clothing," he announced. "To fit a child of three.Rompers, socks, shoes--the complete outfit. Charge them to my accountand send them over to Nan Brent at the Sawdust Pile. I'll give you anote to enclose with them."
Notwithstanding the fact that she was an employe of the Tyee LumberCompany, the girl who waited on him stared at him frankly. He noticedthis and bent upon her a calm glance that brought a guilty flush toher cheek. Quickly she averted her eyes, but, nevertheless she had afeeling that the young laird of Tyee was still appraising her, and,unable to withstand the fascination peculiar to such a situation, shelooked at him again to verify her suspicions--and it was even so. Ingreat confusion she turned to her stock, and Donald, satisfied that hehad squelched her completely, went into the manager's office, wrote,and sealed the following note to Nan Brent:
Saturday night. FRIEND NAN:
Here are some duds for the young fellow. You gave me the right to look after him, you know; at least, you didn't decline it. At any rate, I think you will not mind accepting them from me.
I sent to Seattle for some books I thought you might like. They have probably arrived by parcel-post. Sent you a box of candy, also, although I have forgotten the kind you used to prefer.
Been up in the logging-camp all week, chopping, and I ache all over. Expect to be hard and not quite so weary by next week-end, and will call over for Sunday dinner.
Sincerely, DONALD McKAYE
He spent Sunday at The Dreamerie, and at four o'clock Sundayafternoon boarded the up train and returned to the logging-camp. Mrs.Andrew Daney, seated in Sunday-afternoon peace upon her front veranda,looked up from the columns of the _Churchman_ as the long string oflogging-trucks wound round the base of the little knoll upon which thegeneral manager's home stood; but even at a distance of two blocks,she recognized the young laird of Tyee in the cab with the engineer.
"Dear, dear!" this good soul murmured. "And such a nice young man,too! I should think he'd have more consideration for his family, ifnot for himself."
"Who's that?" Mr. Daney demanded, emerging from behind the Seattle_Post-Intelligencer_.
"Donald McKaye."
"What about him?" Mr. Daney demanded, with slight emphasis on thepronoun.
"Oh, nothing; only--"
"Only what?"
"People say he's unduly interested in Nan Brent."
"If he is, that's his business. Don't let what people say trouble you,Mrs. Daney."
"Well, can I help it if people will talk?"
"Yes--when they talk to you."
"How do you know they've been talking to me, Andrew?" she demandedfoolishly.
"Because you know what they say." Andrew Daney rose from the wickerdeck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-fingerat the partner of his joys and sorrows. "You forget Donald McKaye andthat Brent girl," he ordered. "It's none of your business. All Don hasto say to me is, 'Mr. Daney, your job is vacant'--and, by JudasPriest, it'll be vacant. Remember that, my dear."
"Nonsense, dear. The Laird wouldn't permit it--after all these years."
"If it comes to a test of strength, I'll lose, and don't you forgetit. Old sake's sake is all that saved me from a run-in with Donaldbefore he had been in command fifteen minutes. I refer to that SawdustPile episode. You dissuaded me from doing my duty in that matter,Mary, and my laxity was not pleasing to Donald. I don't blame him awhit."
"Did he say anything?" she demanded, a trifle alarmed.
"No; but he looked it."
"How did he look, Andrew?"
"He looked," her husband replied, "like the Blue Bonnets coming overthe border--that's what he looked like. Then he went down to theSawdust Pile like a raging demon, cleaned it out in two twos, and putit to the torch. You be careful what you say to people, Mary. Get thatboy started once, and he'll hark back to his paternal ancestors; andif The Laird has ever told you the history of that old claymore thathangs on the wall in The Dreamerie, you know that the favorite outdoorsports of the McKaye tribe were fighting and foot-racing--with theother fellow in front."
"The Laird is mild enough," she defended.
"Yes, he is. But when he was young, he could, and frequently did, whiptwice his weight in bear-cats. Old as he is to-day, he's as sound as aman of forty; he wouldn't budge an inch for man or devil."
Mrs. Daney carefully folded the _Churchman_, laid it aside, and placedher spectacles with it.
"Andrew, I know it's terrible of me to breathe such a thing, but--didit ever occur to you that--perhaps--the father of Nan Brent's childmight be--"
"Donald?" he exploded incredulously.
She nodded, and about her nod there was something of that calmself-confidence of an attorney who is winning his case and desires toimpress that fact upon the jury.
"By God, woman," cried Daney, "you have the most infernal ideas--"
"Andrew! Remember it's the Sabbath!"
"It's a wonder my language doesn't shrivel this paper. Now then, wherein hades do you get this crazy notion?" Daney was thoroughly angry.She gazed up at him in vague apprehension. Had she gone too far?Suddenly he relaxed. "No; don't tell me," he growled. "I'll not be agossip. God forgive me, I was about to befoul the very salt I eat.I'll not be disloyal."
"But, Andrew dear, don't you know I wouldn't dare breathe it to anyonebut you?"
"I don't know how much you'd dare. At any rate, I'll excuse you frombreathing it to me, for I'm not interested. I know it isn't true."
"Then, Andrew, it is your duty to tell me why you know it isn't true,in order that I may set at rest certain rumors--"
"You--mind--your--own--business, Mary!" he cried furiously,punctuating each word with a vigorous tap of his finger on the arm ofher chair. "The McKayes meet their responsibilities as eagerly as theydo their enemies. If that child were young Donald's, he'd havemarried the Brent girl, and if he had demurred about it, The Lairdwould have ordered him to."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence in the McKaye family, Andrew,"said a quiet voice. "I think you have the situation sized up justright."
Andrew Daney whirled; his wife glanced up, startled, then half roseand settled back in her chair again, for her legs absolutely refusedto support her. Standing at the foot of the three steps that led offthe veranda was Hector McKaye!
"I drove Donald down from The Dreamerie to catch the up train, andthought I'd drop over and visit with you a bit," he explained. "Ididn't intend to eavesdrop, and I didn't--very much; but since Icouldn't help overhearing such a pertinent bit of conversation, I'llcome up and we'll get to the bottom of it. Keep your seat, Mrs.Daney."
The advice was unnecessary. The poor soul could not have left it. TheLaird perched himself on the veranda railing, handed the dumfoundedDaney a cigar, and helped himself to one.
"Well, proceed," The Laird commanded. His words apparently wereaddressed to both, but his glance was fixed on Mrs. Daney--and now sheunderstood full well her husband's description of the McKaye look.
"I had finished what I had to say, Mr. McKaye," Andrew Daney foundcourage to say.
"So I noted, Andrew, and right well and forcibly you said it. I'mgrateful to you. I make no mistake, I think, if your statement wasn'tin reply to some idle tale told your good wife and repeated by her toyou--in confidence, of course, as between man
and wife."
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. McKaye, I--I'd rather not--discuss it!"Mary Daney cried breathlessly.
"I would I did not deem it a duty to discuss it myself, Mary. But youmust realize that when the tongue of scandal touches my son, itbecomes a personal matter with me, and I must look well for a weaponto combat it. You'll tell me now, Mary, what they've been saying aboutDonald and Caleb Brent's daughter."
"Andrew will tell you," she almost whispered, and made as if to go.But The Laird's fierce eyes deterred her; she quailed and sat downagain.
"Andrew cannot tell me, because Andrew doesn't know," The Lairdrebuked her kindly. "I heard him tell you not to tell him, that hewasn't a gossip, and wouldn't befoul the salt he ate by beingdisloyal, or words to that effect. Is it possible, Mary Daney, thatyou prefer me to think you are not inspired by similar sentiments?Don't cry, Mary--compose yourself."
"Idleness is the mother of mischief, and since the children have grownup and left home, Mary hasn't enough to keep her busy," Daneyexplained. "So, womanlike and without giving sober thought to thematter, she's been listening to the idle chattering of other idlewomen. Now then, my dear," he continued, turning to his wife, "thatsuspicion you just voiced didn't grow in your head. Somebody put itthere--and God knows it found fertile soil. Out with it now, wife!Who've you been gossiping with?"
"I'll name no names," the unhappy woman sobbed; "but somebody told methat somebody else was down at the Sawdust Pile the day Donald burnedthose shacks, and after be burned them he spent an hour in the Brentcottage, and when he came out he had the baby in his arms. When heleft, the child made a great to-do and called him, 'daddy.'"
The Laird smiled.
"Well, Mary, what would you expect the boy to do? Beat the child? Tomy knowledge, he's been robbing the candy department of my generalstore for years, and the tots of Port Agnew have been thebeneficiaries of his vandalism. He was born with a love of children.And would you convict him on the prattle of an innocent child inarms?"
"Certainly not, Mr. McKaye. I understand. Well then, on Saturday nighthe sent over a complete outfit of clothing for the child, with a notein the bundle--"
"Hm-m-m."
"And then somebody remembered that the child's name is Donald."
"How old is that child, Mrs. Daney?"
She considered.
"As I recall it, he'll be three years old in October."
"Since, you're a married woman, Mrs. Daney," The Laird began, withold-fashioned deprecation for the blunt language he was about toemploy, "you'll admit that the child wasn't found behind one of oldBrent's cabbages. This is the year 1916."
But Mrs. Daney anticipated him.
"They've figured it out," she interrupted, "and Donald was home fromcollege for the holidays in 1912."
"So he was," The Laird replied complacently. "I'd forgotten. So thatalibi goes by the board. What else now? Does the child resemble myson?"
"Nobody knows. Nan Brent doesn't receive visitors, and she hasn't beenup-town since the child was born."
"Is that all, Mary?"
"All I have heard so far."
Old Hector was tempted to tell her that, in his opinion, she had heardaltogether too much, but his regard for her husband caused him torefrain.
"It's little enough, and yet it's a great deal," he answered. "You'llbe kind enough, Mary, not to carry word of this idle gossip to TheDreamerie, I should regret that very much."
She flushed with the knowledge that, although he forgave her, still hedistrusted her and considered a warning necessary. However, she noddedvigorous acceptance of his desire, and immediately he changed thetopic. While, for him, the quiet pleasure he had anticipated in thevisit had not materialized and he longed to leave at once, for Daney'ssake he remained for tea. When he departed, Mrs. Daney ran to her roomand found surcease from her distress in tears, while her husband satout on the veranda smoking one of The Laird's fine cigars, hisembarrassment considerably alleviated by the knowledge that hisimprudent wife had received a lesson that should last for theremainder of her life.
About eight o'clock, his wife called him to the telephone. The Lairdwas on the wire.
"In the matter of the indiscreet young lady in the store, Andrew," heordered, "do not dismiss her or reprimand her. The least said in suchcases is soonest mended."
"Very well, sir."
"Good-night, Andrew."
"Good-night, sir."
"Poor man!" Daney sighed, as he hung up. "He's thought of nothingelse since he heard about it; it's a canker in his heart. I wish Idared indicate to Donald the fact that he's being talked about--andwatched--by the idle and curious, in order that he may bear himselfaccordingly. He'd probably misunderstand my motives however."