He spent Sunday at The Dreamerie, and at four o'clock Sunday
afternoon 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 of
logging-trucks wound round the base of the little knoll upon which the
general 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, if
not 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 the
pronoun.
"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 demanded
foolishly.
"Because you know what they say." Andrew Daney rose from the wicker
deck-chair in which he had been lounging and leveled his index-finger
at the partner of his joys and sorrows. "You forget Donald McKaye and
that Brent girl," he ordered. "It's none of your business. All Don has
to say to me is, 'Mr. Daney, your job is vacant'--and, by Judas
Priest, 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 forget
it. Old sake's sake is all that saved me from a run-in with Donald
before he had been in command fifteen minutes. I refer to that Sawdust
Pile 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 a
whit."
"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 over
the border--that's what he looked like. Then he went down to the
Sawdust Pile like a raging demon, cleaned it out in two twos, and put
it to the torch. You be careful what you say to people, Mary. Get that
boy started once, and he'll hark back to his paternal ancestors; and
if The Laird has ever told you the history of that old claymore that
hangs on the wall in The Dreamerie, you know that the favorite outdoor
sports of the McKaye tribe were fighting and foot-racing--with the
other fellow in front."
"The Laird is mild enough," she defended.
"Yes, he is. But when he was young, he could, and frequently did, whip
twice his weight in bear-cats. Old as he is to-day, he's as sound as a
man of forty; he wouldn't budge an inch for man or devil."
Mrs. Daney carefully folded the _Churchman_, laid it aside, and placed
her spectacles with it.
"Andrew, I know it's terrible of me to breathe such a thing, but--did
it ever occur to you that--perhaps--the father of Nan Brent's child
might be--"
"Donald?" he exploded incredulously.
She nodded, and about her nod there was something of that calm
self-confidence of an attorney who is winning his case and desires to
impress 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, where
in 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 a
gossip. 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 anyone
but you?"
"I don't know how much you'd dare. At any rate, I'll excuse you from
breathing 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 of
her chair. "The McKayes meet their responsibilities as eagerly as they
do their enemies. If that child were young Donald's, he'd have
married the Brent girl, and if he had demurred about it, The Laird
would 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 just
right."
Andrew Daney whirled; his wife glanced up, startled, then half rose
and settled back in her chair again, for her legs absolutely refused
to support her. Standing at the foot of the three steps that led off
the veranda was Hector McKaye!
"I drove Donald down from The Dreamerie to catch the up train, and
thought I'd drop over and visit with you a bit," he explained. "I
didn't intend to eavesdrop, and I didn't--very much; but since I
couldn't help overhearing such a pertinent bit of conversation, I'll
come 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. The
Laird perched himself on the veranda railing, handed the dumfounded
Daney a cigar, and helped himself to one.
"Well, proceed," The Laird commanded. His words apparently were
addressed to both, but his glance was fixed on Mrs. Daney--and now she
understood full well her husband's description of the McKaye look.
"I had finished what I had to say, Mr. McKaye," Andrew Daney found
courage to say.
"So I noted, Andrew, and right well and forcibly you said it. I'm
grateful to you. I make no mistake, I think, if your statement wasn't
in reply to some idle tale told your good wife and repeated by her to
you--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 you
must realize that when the tongue of scandal touches my son, it
becomes a personal matter with me, and I must look well for a weapon
to combat it. You'll tell me now, Mary, what they've been saying about
Donald 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 down
again.
"Andrew cannot tell me, because Andrew doesn't know," The Laird
rebuked her kindly. "I heard him tell you not to tell him, that he
wasn't a gossip, and wouldn't befoul the salt he ate by being
disloyal, or words to that effect. Is it possible, Mary Daney, that
you 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 grown
up and left home, Mary hasn't enough to keep her busy," Daney
explained. "So, womanlike and without giving sober thought to the
matter, she's been listening to the idle chattering of other idle
women. Now then, my dear," he continued, turning to his wife, "that
suspicion you just voiced didn't grow in your head. Somebody put it
there--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 me
that somebody else was down at the Sawdust Pile the day Donald burned
those shacks, and after be burned them he spent an hour in the Brent
cottage, and when he came out he had the baby in his arms. When he
left, 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? To
my knowledge, he's been robbing the candy department of my general
store for years, and the tots of Port Agnew have been the
beneficiaries of his vandalism. He was born with a love of children.
And would you convict him on the prattle of an innocent child in
arms?"
"Certainly not, Mr. McKaye. I understand. Well then, on Saturday night
he sent over a complete outfit of clothing for the child, with a note
in 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, with
old-fashioned deprecation for the blunt language he was about to
employ, "you'll admit that the child wasn't found behind one of old
Brent's cabbages. This is the year 1916."
But Mrs. Daney anticipated him.
"They've figured it out," she interrupted, "and Donald was home from
college for the holidays in 1912."
"So he was," The Laird replied complacently. "I'd forgotten. So that
alibi goes by the board. What else now? Does the child resemble my
son?"
"Nobody knows. Nan Brent doesn't receive visitors, and she hasn't been
up-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 heard
altogether too much, but his regard for her husband caused him to
refrain.
"It's little enough, and yet it's a great deal," he answered. "You'll
be kind enough, Mary, not to carry word of this idle gossip to The
Dreamerie, I should regret that very much."
She flushed with the knowledge that, although he forgave her, still he
distrusted her and considered a warning necessary. However, she nodded
vigorous acceptance of his desire, and immediately he changed the
topic. While, for him, the quiet pleasure he had anticipated in the
visit had not materialized and he longed to leave at once, for Daney's
sake he remained for tea. When he departed, Mrs. Daney ran to her room
and found surcease from her distress in tears, while her husband sat
out on the veranda smoking one of The Laird's fine cigars, his
embarrassment considerably alleviated by the knowledge that his
imprudent wife had received a lesson that should last for the
remainder of her life.
About eight o'clock, his wife called him to the telephone. The Laird
was on the wire.
"In the matter of the indiscreet young lady in the store, Andrew," he
ordered, "do not dismiss her or reprimand her. The least said in such
cases is soonest mended."
"Very well, sir."
"Good-night, Andrew."
"Good-night, sir."
"Poor man!" Daney sighed, as he hung up. "He's thought of nothing
else since he heard about it; it's a canker in his heart. I wish I
dared indicate to Donald the fact that he's being talked about--and
watched--by the idle and curious, in order that he may bear himself
accordingly. He'd probably misunderstand my motives however."