IX

During the week, Mary Daney refrained from broaching the subject of

that uncomfortable Sunday afternoon, wherefore her husband realized

she was thinking considerably about it and, as a result, was not

altogether happy. Had he suspected, however, the trend her thoughts

were taking, he would have been greatly perturbed. Momentous thoughts

rarely racked Mrs. Daney's placid and somewhat bovine brain, but once

she became possessed with the notion that Nan Brent was the only human

being possessed of undoubted power to create or suppress a scandal

which some queer feminine intuition warned her impended, the more

firmly did she become convinced that it was her Christian duty to call

upon Nan Brent and strive to present the situation in a common-sense

light to that erring young Woman.

Having at length attained to this resolution, a subtle peace settled

over Mrs. Daney, the result, doubtless, of a consciousness of virtue

regained, since she was about to right a wrong to which she had so

thoughtlessly been a party. Her decision had almost been reached when

her husband, coming home for luncheon at noon on Saturday, voiced the

apprehension which had harassed him during the week.

"Donald will be home from the woods to-night," he announced, in

troubled tones. "I do hope he'll not permit that big heart of his to

lead him into further kindnesses that will be misunderstood by

certain people in case they hear of them. I have never known a man so

proud and fond of a son as The Laird is of Donald."

"Nonsense!" his wife replied complacently. "The Laird has forgotten

all 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 the

meantime, it's none of our business, dear. Eat your luncheon and don't

think about it."

He relapsed into moody silence. When he had departed for the mill

office, however, his wife's decision had been reached. Within the hour

she was on her way to the Sawdust Pile, but as she approached Caleb

Brent's garden gate, she observed, with a feeling of gratification,

that, after all, it was not going to be necessary for her to be seen

entering the house or leaving it. Far up the strand she saw a woman

and 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, at

the same time walking slowly away at right angles, in order to obviate

a meeting. To her surprise, Mrs. Daney also changed her course, and

Nan, observing this out of the corner of her eye, dropped her apronful

of 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 a

distance." Nan replied smilingly, and was instantly convinced that she

had read her visitor's mind aright, for Mrs. Daney flushed slightly.

"Suppose," the girl suggested gently, "that you preface what you have

to say by calling me 'Nan.' You knew me well enough to call me that in

an earlier and happier day, Mrs. Daney."

"Thank you, Nan. I shall accept your invitation and dispense with

formality." She hesitated for a beginning, and Nan, observing her

slight embarrassment, was gracious enough to aid her by saying:

"I dare say your visit has something to do with the unenviable social

position in which I find myself in Port Agnew, Mrs. Daney, for I

cannot imagine any other possible interest in me to account for it. So

you may be quite frank. I'm sure nothing save a profound sense of duty

brought you here, and I am prepared to listen." This was a degree of

graciousness the lady had not anticipated, and it put her at her ease

immediately.

"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 is

the 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 Agnew

has no interest in me, pray why, Mrs. Daney, should I have the

slightest interest in the impressions of these people you refer to and

whose volunteer representative you appear to be?"

"There! I knew you would be offended!" Mrs. Daney cried, with a

deprecatory shrug. "I'm sure I find this a most difficult matter to

discuss, 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 not

cannot be a matter of much import to you or the others. And I'll try

not 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 in

ridding the Sawdust Pile of your neighbors has occasioned comment. It

appears that this was his first official act after assuming his

father's place in the business. Then he visited you and your father

for an hour, and your child, whom it appears you have named Donald,

called him 'daddy.' Then, last Saturday night, Mr. McKaye sent over

some clothing for the boy--"

"Whereupon the amateur detectives took up the trail," Nan interrupted

bitterly. "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? Is

that it?"

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

"I see your point of view very readily, Mrs. Daney. Your apprehensions

are ridiculous--almost pathetic, Don McKaye's great sympathy is alone

responsible for his hardihood in noticing me, and he is so much too

big for Port Agnew that it is no wonder his motives are misunderstood.

However, I am sorry his father is worried. We have a very great

respect for The Laird; indeed, we owe him a debt of gratitude, and

there is nothing my father or I would not do to preserve his peace of

mind."

"The talk will die out, of course, unless something should occur to

revive it, Miss Brent--I mean, Nan. But it would be just like Donald

McKaye to start a revival of this gossip. He doesn't care a farthing

for what people think or say, and he is too young to realize that one

_must_ pay _some_ attention to public opinion. You realize that, of

course."

"I ought to, Mrs. Daney. I think I have had some experience of public

opinion," 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 the

beginning--not to mention my visit or this interview to a living

soul."

"My 'honor!'" Nan's low, bitter laugh raked the Daney nerves like a

rasp. "I think, Mrs. Daney, that I may be depended upon to follow my

own inclinations in this matter. I suspect you have been doing some

talking yourself and may have gone too far, with the result that you

are hastening now, by every means in your power, to undo whatever

harm, 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 not

unintelligent and neither am I degraded. I think I possess a far

keener conception of my duty than do you or those whom you have

elected to represent; hence I regard this visit as an unwarranted

impertinence. One word from me to Donald McKaye--"

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

and trembling.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't breathe a word to

him, would you? Promise me you'll say nothing. How could I face my

husband if--if--" She began 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 driftwood

she had gathered, and called to her child. As the little fellow

approached, Mrs. Daney so far forgot her perturbation as to look at

him keenly and decide, eventually, that he bore not the faintest

resemblance to Donald McKaye.

"I'm sure, Nan, you will not be heartless enough to tell Donald McKaye

of my visit to you," she pleaded, as the girl started down the beach.

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

answered carelessly.

"You shall not leave me until you promise to be silent!" Mary Daney

cried hysterically, and rose to follow her.

"I think you had better go, Mrs. Daney. I am quite familiar with the

figure of The Laird since his retirement; he walks round the bight

with his dogs every afternoon for exercise, and, if I am not greatly

mistaken, that is he coming down the beach."

Mrs. Daney cast a terrified glance in the direction indicated. A few

hundred yards up the beach she recognized The Laird, striding briskly

along, swinging his stick, and with his two English setters romping

beside him. With a final despairing "Please Nan; please do not be

cruel!" she fled, Nan Brent smiling mischievously after her stout

retreating form.

"I have condemned you to the horrors of uncertainty," the girl

soliloquized. "How very, very stupid you are, Mrs. Daney, to warn me

to protect him! As if I wouldn't lay down my life to uphold his honor!

Nevertheless, you dear old bungling busybody, you are absolutely

right, although I suspect no altruistic reason carried you forth on

this uncomfortable errand."

Nan had heretofore, out of the bitterness of her life, formed the

opinion that brickbats were for the lowly, such as she, and bouquets

solely 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 seats

of the mighty, his fellows strive to drag him back, down to their own

ignoble level--or lower. To Nan, child of poverty, sorrow, and

solitude, the world had always appeared more or less incomprehensible,

but this afternoon, as she retraced her slow steps to the Sawdust

Pile, the old dull pain of existence had become more complicated and

acute with the knowledge that the first ray of sunlight that had

entered her life in three years was about to be withdrawn; and at the

thought, tears, which seemed to well from her heart rather than from

her eyes, coursed down her cheeks and a sob broke through her clenched

lips.

Her progress homeward, what with the heavy bundle of driftwood, in her

apron impeding her stride, coupled with the necessity for frequent

pauses to permit her child to catch up with her, was necessarily

slow--so slow, in fact, that presently she heard quick footsteps

behind her and, turning, beheld Hector McKaye. He smiled, lifted his

hat, and greeted her pleasantly.

"Good-afternoon, Miss Nan. That is a heavy burden of driftwood you

carry, my dear. Here--let me relieve you of it. I've retired, you

know, and the necessity for finding something to do--Bless my soul,

the girl's crying!" He paused, hat in hand, and gazed at her with

frank 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, and

I'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 much

like 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 it

that 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 the

telltale tears from her sweet face.

"I have been lax in neighborly solicitude," The Laird continued. "I

must send you over a supply of wood from the box factory. We have more

waste 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 consider

carefully the infant's weight, he searched the cherubic countenance

with a swift, appraising glance.

"Healthy little rascal," he continued, and swung the child high in the

air two or three times, smiling paternally as the latter screamed with

delight. "How do you like that, eh?" he demanded, as he set the boy

down on the sand again.

"Dood!" the child replied, and gazing up at The Laird yearningly. "Are

you my daddy?"

But The Laird elected to disregard the pathetic query and busied

himself gathering up the bundle of driftwood, nor did he permit his

glance to rest upon Nan Brent's flushed and troubled face. Tucking the

bundle under one arm and taking Nan's child on the other, he whistled

to his dogs and set out for the Sawdust Pile, leaving the girl to

follow behind him. He preceded her through the gate, tossed the

driftwood on a small pile in the yard, and turned to hand her the

apron.

"You are not altogether happy, poor girl!" he said kindly. "I'm very

sorry. I want the people in my town to be happy."

"I shall grow accustomed to it, Mr. McKaye," Nan answered. "To-day, I

am merely a little more depressed than usual. Thank you so much for

carrying the wood. You are more than kind."

His calm, inscrutable gray glance roved over her, noting her beauty

and 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 must

come to you sometimes. Perhaps you would be happier elsewhere than in

Port Agnew."

"Perhaps," she replied dully.

"If you could procure work--some profession to keep your mind off your

troubles--I have some property in Tacoma--suburban lots with cottages

on them." The Laird grew confused and embarrassed because of the

thought that was in the back of his mind, and was expressing himself

jerkily and in disconnected sentences. "I do not mean--I do not offer

charity, for I take it you have had enough insults--well, you and your

father could occupy one of those cottages at whatever you think you

could afford to pay, and I would be happy to advance you any funds you

might need until you--could--that is, of course, you must get on your

feet again, and you must have help--" He waved his hand. "All this

oppresses me."

The remembrance of Mrs. Daney's interview with her prompted the girl

to flash back at him.

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

He gazed upon her in frank admiration for her audacity and

perspicacity.

"Yes," he admitted slowly; "I dare say I deserve that. Yet, mingled

with that ulterior motive you have so unerringly discerned, there is a

genuine, if belated, desire to be decently human. I think you realize

that also."

"I should be stupid and ungrateful did I not, Mr. McKaye. I am sorry I

spoke just now as I did, but I could not bear--"

"To permit me to lay the flattering unction to my soul that I had

gotten 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 I

am nobody, but because you should have more faith in yourself and be

above the possibility of disturbance at the hands--or rather, the

tongues--of people who speak in whispers." She came close to him

suddenly and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, for she was

speaking with profound earnestness. "I am your debtor, Mr. McKaye, for

that speech you found it so hard to make just now, and for past

kindnesses from you and your son. I cannot accept your offer. I would

like to, did my pride permit, and were it not for the fact that such

happiness as is left to my father can only be found by the Bight of

Tyee. So, while he lives I shall not desert him. As for your

apprehensions"--she smiled tolerantly and whimsically--"though

flattering to me, they are quite unnecessary, and I beg you rid your

mind of them. I am--that which I am; yet I am more than I appear to be

to some and I shall not wantonly or wilfully hurt you--or yours."

The Laird of Tyee took in both of his the slim hand that rested so

lightly on his sleeve--that dainty left hand with the long, delicate

fingers 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 world

will not." He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her hand and

departed; yet such was his knowledge of life that now his soul was

more deeply troubled than it had been since his unintentional

eavesdropping on his manager's garrulous wife.

"What a woman!" he reflected. "Brains, imagination, dignity, womanly

pride, courage, beauty and--yes; I agree with Donald. Neither maid,

wife nor widow is she--yet she is not, never has been, and never will

be a woman without virtue. Ah, Donald, my son, she's a bonny lass! For

all her fall, she's not a common woman and my son is not a common

man--I wonder--Oh, 'tis lies, lies, lies, and she's heard them and

knows they're lies. Ah, my son, my son, with the hot blood of youth in

you--you've a man's head and heart and a will of your own--Aye, she's

sweet--that she is--I wonder!"

X

At the front of Caleb Brent's little house there was a bench upon

which the old man was wont to sit on sunny days--usually in the

morning, before the brisk, cool nor'west trade-wind commenced to blow.

Following Hector McKaye's departure, Nan sought this bench until she

had sufficiently mastered her emotions to conceal from her father

evidence of a distress more pronounced than usual; as she sat there,

she revolved the situation in her mind, scanning every aspect of it,

weighing carefully every possibility.

In common with the majority of human kind, Nan considered herself

entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and now, at a

period when, in the ordinary course of events, all three of these

necessary concomitants of successful existence (for, to her, life

meant something more than mere living) should have been hers in

bounteous measure, despite the handicap under which she had been born,

she faced a future so barren that sometimes the distant boom of the

breakers on Tyee Head called to her to desert her hopeless fight and

in the blue depths out yonder find haven from the tempests of her

soul.

In an elder day, when the Sawdust Pile had been Port Agnew's

garbage-dump, folks who clipped their rose bushes and thinned out

their marigold plants had been accustomed to seeing these slips take

root again and bloom on the Sawdust Pile for a brief period after

their ash-cans had been emptied there; and, though she did not know

it, Nan Brent bore pitiful resemblance to these outcast flowers. Here,

on the reclaimed Sawdust Pile, she had bloomed from girlhood into

lovely womanhood--a sweet forget-me-not in the Garden of Life, she had

been transplanted into Eden until Fate, the grim gardener, had cast

her out, to take root again on the Sawdust Pile and ultimately to

wither and die.

It is terrible for the great of soul, the ambitious, the imaginative,

when circumstances condemn them to life amid dull, uninteresting,

drab, and sometimes sordid surroundings. Born to love and be loved,

Nan Brent's soul beat against her environment even as a wild bird,

captured and loosed in a room, beats against the window-pane. From the

moment she had felt within her the vague stirrings of womanhood, she

had been wont to gaze upon the blue-back hills to the east, to the

horizon out west, wondering what mysteries lay beyond, and yearning to

encounter them. Perhaps it was the sea-faring instinct, the

_Wanderlust_ of her forebears; perhaps it was a keener appreciation of

the mediocrity of Port Agnew than others in the little town possessed,

a realization that she had more to give to life than life had to give

to her. Perhaps it had been merely the restlessness that is the twin

of a rare heritage--the music of the spheres--for with such had Nan

been born. It is hard to harken for the reedy music of Pan and hear

only the whine of a sawmill or the boom of the surf.

Of her mother, Nan had seen but little. Her recollections of her

mother were few and vague; of her mother's people, she knew nothing

save the fact that they dwelt in a world quite free of Brents, and

that her mother had committed a distinctly social _faux pas_ in

marrying Caleb Brent she guessed long before Caleb Brent, in his brave

simplicity, had imparted that fact to her. An admiral's daughter,

descendant of an old and wealthy Revolutionary family, the males of

which had deemed any calling other than the honorable profession of

arms as beneath the blood and traditions of the family, Nan's mother

had been the pet of Portsmouth until, inexplicably, Caleb Brent, a

chief petty officer on her father's flag-ship, upon whom the hero's

medal had just been bestowed, had found favor in her eyes. The ways of

love, as all the philosophers of the ages are agreed, are beyond

definition or understanding; even in his own case, Caleb Brent was not

equal to the task of understanding how their love had grown, burgeoned

into an engagement, and ripened into marriage. He only knew that, from

a meek and well-disciplined petty officer, he had suddenly developed

the courage of a Sir Galahad, and, while under the influence of a

strange spell, had respectfully defied the admiral, who had foolishly

assumed that, even if his daughter would not obey him, his junior in

the service would. Then had come the baby girl, Nan, the

divorce--pressed by the mother's family--and the mother's death.

If his wife had discerned in him the nobility that was so apparent to

his daughter--Poor old hero! But Nan always checked her meditations at

this point. They didn't seem quite fair to her mother.

Seated on the bench this afternoon, Nan reviewed her life from her

sixth year, the year in which her father had claimed her. Until her

eighteenth year, she had not been unhappy, for, following their

arrival in Port Agnew, her father had prospered to a degree which

permitted his daughter the enjoyment of the ordinary opportunities of

ordinary people. If she had not known extravagance in the matter of

dress, neither had she known penury; when her feminine instinct

impelled her to brighten and beautify the little home on the Sawdust

Pile from time to time, she had found that possible. She had been

graduated with honors from the local high school, and, being a

book-lover of catholic taste and wide range, she was, perhaps, more

solidly educated than the majority of girls who have had opportunities

for so-called higher education. With the broad democracy of sawmill

towns, she had not, in the days gone by, been excluded from the social

life of the town, such as it was, and she had had her beaus, such as

they were. Sometimes she wondered how the choir in the Presbyterian

church had progressed since she, once the mezzo-soprano soloist, had

resigned to sing lullabys to a nameless child, if Andrew Daney still

walked on the tips of his shoes when he passed the collection-plate,

and if the mortgage on the church had ever been paid.

She rose wearily and entered the little house. Old Caleb sat at the

dining-room table playing solitaire. He looked up as she entered,

swept the cards into a heap and extended his old arm to encircle her

waist as she sat on the broad arm of his chair. She drew his gray head

down on her breast.

"Dadkins," she said presently, "Donald McKaye isn't coming to dinner

to-morrow after all."

"Oh, that's too bad, Nan! Has he written you? What's happened?"

"No; he hasn't written me, and nothing's happened. I have decided to

send him word not to come."

[Illustration: SHE STOLE TO THE OLD SQUARE PIANO AND SANG FOR HIM.]

"Aren't you feeling well, my dear?"

"It isn't that, popsy-wops. He's the new laird of Tyee now, and he

must be careful of the company he keeps."

Old Caleb growled in his throat.

"Much he cares what people think."

"I know it. And much I care what people think, for I've grown

accustomed to their thoughts. But I do care what his father thinks,

for, of course, he has plans for Donald's future, and if Donald, out

of the kindness of his heart, should become a frequent visitor here,

The Laird would hear of it sooner or later--sooner, perhaps, for it

would never occur to Donald to conceal it--and then the poor laird

would be worried. And we don't owe The Laird that, father Brent!"

"No; we do not." The old face was troubled.

"I met Mrs. Daney on the beach, and it was she who gave me the

intimation that The Laird had heard some cruel gossip that was

disturbing him."

"I'm sorry. Well, use your own judgment, daughter."

"I'm sure Donald will understand," she assured him. "And he will not

think the less of us for doing it."

She got up and went to the peculiar and wholly impractical little desk

which Mrs. McKaye had picked up in Italy and which Donald, calm in the

knowledge that his mother would never use it or miss it, had given her

to help furnish the house when first they had come to the Sawdust

Pile. On a leaf torn from a tablet, she wrote:

THE SAWDUST PILE, Saturday Afternoon.