Having done that which her conscience dictated, Nan Brent returned to
her home a prey to many conflicting emotions, chief of which were a
quiet sense of exaltation in the belief that she had played fair by
both old Hector and his son, and a sense of depression in the
knowledge that she would not see Donald McKaye again. As a boy, she
had liked him tremendously; as a man, she knew she liked him even
better.
She was quite certain she had never met a man who was quite fit to
breathe the same air with Donald McKaye; already she had magnified his
virtues until, to her, he was rapidly assuming the aspect of an
archangel--a feeling which bordered perilously on adoration.
But deep down in her woman's heart she was afraid, fearing for her own
weakness. The past had brought her sufficient anguish--she dared not
risk a future filled with unsatisfied yearning that comes of a great
love suppressed or denied.
She felt better about it as she walked homeward; it seemed that she
had regained, in a measure, some peace of mind, and as she prepared
dinner for her father and her child, she was almost cheerful. A warm
glow of self-complacency enveloped her. Later, when old Caleb and the
boy had retired and she sat before the little wood fire alone with her
thoughts, this feeling of self-conscious rectitude slowly left her,
and into its place crept a sense of desolation inspired by one
thought that obtruded upon her insistently, no matter how desperately
she drove her mind to consider other things. She was not to see him
again--no, never any more. Those fearless, fiery gray eyes that were
all abeam with tenderness and complete understanding that day he left
her at the gate; those features that no one would ever term handsome,
yet withal so rugged, so strong, so pregnant of character, so
peculiarly winning when lighted by the infrequent smile--she was never
to gaze upon them again. It did not seem quite fair that, for all that
the world had denied her, it should withhold from her this
inconsequent delight. This was carrying misfortune too far; it was
terrible--unbearable almost--
A wave of self-pity, the most acute misery of a tortured soul, surged
over her; she laid her fair head on her arms outspread upon the table,
and gave herself up to wild sobbing. In her desolation, she called
aloud, piteously, for that mother she had hardly known, as if she
would fain summon that understanding spirit and in her arms seek the
comfort that none other in this world could give her. So thoroughly
did she abandon herself to this first--and final--paroxysm of despair
that she failed to hear a tentative rap upon the front door and,
shortly, the tread of rough-shod feet on the board walk round the
house. Her first intimation that some one had arrived to comfort her
came in the shape of a hard hand that thrust itself gently under her
chin and lifted her face from her arms.
Through the mist of her tears she saw only the vague outlines of a man
clad in heavy woolen shirt and mackinaw, such as her father frequently
wore.
"Oh, father, father!" she cried softly, and laid her head on his
breast, while her arms went round his neck. "I'm so terribly unhappy!
I can't bear it--I can't! Just--because he chose to be--kind to
us--those gossips--as if anybody could help being fond of him--"
She was held tight in his arms.
"Not your father, Nan." Donald murmured in a low voice.
She drew away from him with a sharp little cry of amazement and
chagrin, but his great arms closed round her and drew her close again.
"Poor dear," he told her, "you were calling for your mother. You
wanted a breast to weep upon, didn't you? Well, mine is here for you."
"Oh, sweetheart, you mustn't!" she cried passionately, her lips
unconsciously framing the unspoken cry of her heart as she strove to
escape from him.
"Ah, but I shall!" he answered. "You've called me 'sweetheart,' and
that gives me the right." And he kissed her hot cheek and laughed the
light, contented little laugh of the conqueror, nor could all her
frantic pleadings and struggling prevail upon him to let her go. In
the end, she did the obvious, the human thing. She clasped him tightly
round the neck, and, forgetting everything in the consuming wonder of
the fact that this man loved her with a profound and holy love, she
weakly gave herself up to his caresses, satisfying her heart-hunger
for a few blessed, wonderful moments before hardening herself to the
terrible task of impressing upon him the hopelessness of it all and
sending him upon his way. By degrees, she cried herself dry-eyed and
leaned against him, striving to collect her dazed thoughts. And then
he spoke.
"I know what you're going to say, dear. From a worldly point of view,
you are quite right. Seemingly, without volition on our part, we have
evolved a distressing, an impossible situation--"
"Oh, I'm so glad that you understand!" she gasped.
"And yet," he continued soberly, "love such as ours is not a light
thing to be passed lightly by. To me, Nan Brent, you are sacred; to
you, I yearn to be all things that--the--other man was not. I didn't
realize until I entered unannounced and found you so desolate that I
loved you. For two weeks you have been constantly in my thoughts, and
I know now that, after all, you were my boyhood sweetheart."
"I know you were mine," she agreed brokenly. "But that's just a little
tender memory now, even if we said nothing about it then. We are
children no longer, Donald dear; we must be strong and not surrender
to our selfish love."
"I do not regard it as selfish," he retorted soberly. "It seems most
perfectly natural and inevitable. Why, Nan, I didn't even pay you the
preliminary compliment of telling you I loved you or asking you if you
reciprocated my affection. It appeared to me I didn't have to; that it
was a sort of mutual understanding--for here we are. It seems it just
was to be--like the law of gravitation."
She smiled up at him, despite her mental pain.
"I'm not so certain, dear," she answered, "that I'm not wicked enough
to rejoice. It will make our renunciation all the easier--for me. I
have known great sorrow, but to-night, for a little while, I have
surrendered myself to great happiness, and nothing--nothing--can ever
rob me of the last shred of that. You are my man, Donald. The
knowledge that you love me is going to draw much of the sting out of
existence. I know I cannot possess you, but I can resign myself to
that and not be embittered."
"Well," he answered dully, "I can give you up--because I have to; but
I shall never be resigned about it, and I fear I may be embittered. Is
there no hope, Nan?"
"A faint one--some day, perhaps, if I outlive another."
"I'll wait for that day, Nan. Meanwhile, I shall ask no questions. I
love you enough to accept your love on faith, for, by God, you're a
good woman!"
Her eyes shown with a wonderful radiance as she drew his face down to
hers and kissed him on the lips.
"It's sweet of you to say that; I could love you for that alone, were
there nothing else, Donald. But tell me, dear, did you receive my
letter?"
"Yes--and ignored it. That's why I'm here."
"That was a risk you should not have taken."
He looked thoughtfully at the multicolored flame of the driftwood
fire.
"Well, you see, Nan, it didn't occur to me that I was taking a risk; a
confession of love was the last thing I would have thought would
happen."
"Then why did you disregard that letter that cost me such an effort to
write?"
"Well," he replied slowly, "I guess it's because I'm the captain of my
soul--or try to be, at any rate. I didn't think it quite fair that you
should be shunned; it occurred to me that I wouldn't be playing a
manly part to permit the idle mewing of the Port Agnew tabbies to
frighten me away. I didn't intend to fall in love with you--Oh, drat
my reasons! I'm here because I'm here. And in the matter of that old
hen--" He paused and favored her with a quizzical smile.
"Yes?"
"I brought a substitute hen with me--all ready for the pot, and if I
can't come to dinner to-morrow, I'm going to face a very lonely
Sunday."
"You ridiculous boy! Of course you may come, although it must be the
final visit. You realize that we owe it to ourselves not to make our
burden heavier than it's going to be."
He nodded.
"'Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we may be dead,'" he quoted.
"Let's sit down and talk it over. I haven't sat in front of a
driftwood fire since I was a boy. Queer how the salt in the wood
colors the flames, isn't it?"
It occurred to her for a fleeting moment that they two were driftwood,
and that the salt of their tears would color their lives as the years
consumed them. But she banished from her mind all thought of
everything save the present. With a contented little sigh she seated
herself beside him; her hand stole into his and, soothed and sustained
by the comforting touch, each of the other, gradually the first terror
of their predicament faded; ere long, Donald reminded her of her
promise, and she stole to the old square piano and sang for him while,
without, Dirty Dan O'Leary crouched in the darkness and thrilled at
the rippling melody.
At ten o'clock, when Donald left the Sawdust Pile, he and Nan had
arrived at a firm determination to follow separate paths, nor seek to
level the barrier that circumstance had raised between them.
"Some day--perhaps," he whispered, as he held her to his heart in the
dark-it the garden gate. "While I live, I shall love you. Good-by, old
sweetheart!"