The heir of the Tyee mills and forests was not of a religious turn of
mind for all his strict training in Christian doctrine, although
perhaps it would be more to the point to state that he was inclined to
be unorthodox. Nevertheless, out of respect to the faith of his
fathers, he rose that Sunday morning and decided to go to church. Not
that he anticipated any spiritual benefit would accrue to him by
virtue of his pilgrimage down to Port Agnew; in his heart of hearts he
regarded the pastor as an old woman, a man afraid of the world, and
without any knowledge of it, so to speak. But old Hector was a pillar
of the church; his family had always accompanied him thither on
Sundays, and a sense of duty indicated to Donald that, as the future
head of the clan, he should not alter its customs.
By a strange coincidence, the Reverend Mr. Tingley chose as the text
for his sermon the eighth chapter of the Gospel according to St. John
from the first to the eleventh verses, inclusive. Donald, instantly
alert, straightened in the pew, and prepared to listen with interest
to the Reverend Mr. Tingley's opinion of the wisdom of Jesus Christ in
so casually disposing of the case of the woman taken in adultery.
"Dearly beloved," the pastor began, carefully placing an index-finger
between the leaves of his Bible to mark the passage he had just read,
"the title of my sermon this Sunday shall be: 'The First Stone. Let
him who is without sin cast it.'"
"Banal, hypocritical ass!" Donald soliloquized. "She was the
mezzo-soprano soloist in your choir four years, and you haven't tried
to help her since she came back to the Sawdust Pile."
It was a good sermon, as sermons go. In fact, the Reverend Mr.
Tingley, warming to his theme, quite outdid himself on the subject of
charity as practised by his Redeemer, and, as a result, was the
recipient of numberless congratulatory handshakes later at the church
door. Donald agreed that it was an unusually good sermon--in theory;
but since he knew it would collapse in practise, he avoided Mr.
Tingley after service.
On the steps of the church he was accosted by Andrew Daney and the
latter's wife, who greeted him effusively. Unfortunately for Mrs.
Daney, Nan, in one of those bursts of confidence that must ever exist
between lovers, had informed Donald the night previous of the motherly
soul's interest in his affairs; wherefore he returned Mrs. Daney's
warm greeting with such chilly courtesy that she was at no loss to
guess the reason for it and was instantly plunged into a slough of
terror and despair. She retained sufficient wit, however, to draw her
husband away, thus preventing him from walking with Donald.
"I want to tell him about Dirty Dan," Daney protested, in a low voice.
"As the boss, he ought to be told promptly of any injury to an
employe."
"Never mind Dirty Dan," she retorted. "He'll hear of it soon enough.
Let us congratulate Mr. Tingley on his sermon."
Donald, having turned his back on them almost rudely, strode down the
street to his car and motored back to The Dreamerie. He spent the
remainder of the morning force-breaking a setter puppy to retrieve; at
one o'clock, he ate a cold luncheon, and immediately thereafter drove
down to Port Agnew and brazenly parked his car in front of Caleb
Brent's gate.
He entered without the formality of knocking, and Nan met him in the
tiny entrance-hall.
"I couldn't wait until dinner-time," he explained. "Nobody home at The
Dreamerie--" He took her face in his calloused hands, drew her to him.
"You're sweet in that calico gown," he informed her, waiving a
preliminary word of greeting. "I love you," he added softly, and
kissed her. She clung to him.
"You should not have come here in broad daylight," she protested. "Oh,
you big, foolish, impulsive dear! Don't you realize I want to protect
you from the tongue of scandal? If you persist in forgetting who you
are, does it follow that I should pursue a similar course?"
He ignored her argument.
"I'll help you get dinner, old blue-eyes," he suggested. "Let me shuck
some corn or shell some peas or string some beans--any job where I can
sit and look at you and talk to you."
"It will please me if you'll visit a little while with father Caleb,"
she suggested. "He's out on the sun-porch. He's far from well this
morning. Do cheer him up, Donald dear."
Old Caleb hailed him with a pleasure that was almost childish. During
the two weeks that had elapsed since Donald had seen him last, he had
failed markedly.
"Well, how does the old sailor feel this morning?" Donald queried
casually, seating himself opposite the old man.
"Poorly, Mr. Donald; poorly." He turned, satisfied himself that Nan
was busy in the kitchen, and then leaned toward his visitor. "I've got
my sailing-orders," he whispered confidentially. The man who had won a
Congressional medal of honor, without clearly knowing why or how, had
not changed with the years. He advanced this statement as a simple
exposition of fact.
"Think so, Caleb?" Donald answered soberly.
"I know it."
"If you have no desire to live, Caleb, of course nature will yield to
your desires. Remember that and buck up. You may have your
sailing-orders, but you can keep the bar breaking indefinitely to
prevent you from crossing out."
"I've done that for a year past. I do not wish to die and leave her,
for my three-quarter pay stops then. But I suffer from angina
pectoris. It's the worry, Mr. Donald," he added.
"Worry as to the future of Nan and the child?"
"Aye, lad."
"Well, Caleb, your worries are unnecessary. I feel it my duty to tell
you that I love Nan; she loves me, and we have told each other so. She
shall not suffer when you are gone. She has indicated to me that, some
day, this--this mess may be cleared up; and when that happens, I shall
marry Nan."
"So Nan told me this morning. I was wondering if you'd speak to me
about it, and I'm glad you have done so--promptly. You--you--honor us,
Mr. Donald; you do, indeed. You're the one man in the world I can
trust her with, whether as good friend or husband--only, her hushand
you'll never be."
"I see breakers ahead," Donald admitted. He had no desire to dissemble
with this straightforward old father.
"We're poor folk and plain, but--please God!--we're decent and we know
our place, Mr. Donald. If your big heart tells you to dishonor
yourself in the eyes of your world and your people--mark you, lad, I
do not admit that an alliance with my girl could ever dishonor you in
your own eyes--Nan will not be weak enough to permit it."
"I have argued all that out with myself," Donald confessed miserably,
"without having arrived at a conclusion. I have made up my mind to
wait patiently and see what the future may bring forth."
"It may be a long wait."
"It will be worth while. And when you have sailed, I'll finance her to
leave Port Agnew and develop her glorious voice."
"You haven't the right, Mr. Donald. My girl has some pride."
"I'll gamble a sizable sum on her artistic future. The matter will be
arranged on a business basis. I shall lend her the money, and she
shall pay me back with interest."
"Nan has a woman's pride. The obligation would remain always, even
though the money should be repaid."
"I think we'll manage to adjust that," Donald countered confidently.
"Ah, well," the old fellow answered; "we've always been your debtors.
And it's a debt that grows."
He loaded his pipe and was silent, for, after the fashion of the aged,
he dared assume that his youthful auditor would understand just how
the Brents regarded him.
"Well, my heart's lighter for our talk, lad," he declared presently.
"If you don't mind, I'll have a little nap."
Donald, grateful for the dismissal, returned to the kitchen, where Nan
was preparing the vegetables. Her child at once clamored for
recognition, and, almost before he knew it, Donald had the tyke in his
lap and was saying,
"Once upon a time there was a king and he had three sons----"
"He isn't interested in kings and princes, dear," Nan interrupted.
"Tell him the story of the bad little rabbit."
"But I don't know it, Nan."
"Then you'll fail as a daddy to my boy. I'm surprised. If Don were
your own flesh and blood, you would know intuitively that there is
always a bad little rabbit and a good little rabbit. They dwell in a
hollow tree with mother Rabbit and father Rabbit."
"Thanks for the hint. I shall not fail in this job of dadding. Well
then, bub, once upon a time there was a certain Mr. Johnny Rabbit who
married a very beautiful lady rabbit whose name was Miss Molly
Cottontail. After they were married and had gone to keep house under a
lumber-pile, Mr. Hezekiah Coon came along and offered to rent them
some beautifully furnished apartments in the burned-out stump of a
hemlock tree. The rent was to be one nice ear of sweet corn every
month--"
The tale continued, with eager queries from the interested
listener--queries which merely stimulated the young laird of Tyee to
wilder and more whimsical flights of fancy, to the unfolding of
adventures more and more thrilling and unbelievable until, at last,
the recital began to take on the character of an Arabian Nights' tale
that threatened to involve the entire animal kingdom, and only ceased
when, with a wealth of mournful detail, Donald described the tragic
death and funeral of the gallant young Johnny Rabbit, his fatherless
audience suddenly burst into tears and howled lugubriously; whereupon
Donald was hard put to it to bring Johnny Rabbit back to life
mysteriously but satisfactorily, and send him scampering home to the
hollow hemlock tree, there to dwell happily ever after.
His tale completed, Donald happened to glance toward Nan. She was
regarding him with shining eyes.
"Donald," she declared, "it's a tremendous pity you haven't a boy of
your own. You're just naturally intended for fatherhood."
He grinned.
"My father has been hinting rather broadly that a grandson would be
the very last thing on earth to make him angry. He desires to see the
name and the breed and the business in a fair way of perpetuation
before he passes on."
"That is the way of all flesh, Donald."
"I wish it were not his way. My inability to comply with his desires
isn't going to render dad or me any happier."
"Dear old boy, what a frightful predicament you're in!" she murmured
sympathetically. "I wish I could be quite certain you aren't really in
love with me, Donald."
"Life would be far rosier for all concerned if I were quite certain I
was mistaking an old and exalted friendship for true love. But I'm
not. You're the one woman in the world for me, and if I cannot have
you, I'll have none other--Hello! Weeping has made this young fellow
heavy-lidded, or else my fiction has bored him, for he's nodding."
"It's time for his afternoon nap, Donald." She removed the sleepy tot
from his arms and carried him away to his crib. When she returned, she
resumed her task of preparing dinner.
"Nan," Donald queried suddenly, "have I the right to ask you the name
of the man who fathered that child?"
"Yes," she answered soberly; "you have. I wish, however, that you
would not ask me. I should have to decline to answer you."
"Well, then, I'll not ask. Nevertheless, it would interest me mightily
to know why you protect him."
"I am not at all desirous of protecting him, Donald. I am merely
striving to protect his legal wife. His marriage to me was bigamous;
he undertook the task of leading a dual married life, and, when I
discovered it, I left him."
"But are you certain he married you?"
"We went through a marriage ceremony which, at the time, I regarded as
quite genuine. Of course, since it wasn't legal, it leaves me in the
status of an unmarried woman."
"So I understood from your father. Where did this ceremony take
place?"
"In San Francisco." She came over, sat down beside him, and took one
of his hard, big hands in both of hers. "I'm going to tell you as much
as I dare," she informed him soberly. "You have a right to know, and
you're too nice to ask questions. So I'll not leave you to the agonies
of doubt and curiosity. You see, honey dear, father Brent wanted me to
have vocal and piano lessons, and to do that I had to go to Seattle
once a week, and the railroad-fare, in addition to the cost of the
lessons, was prohibitive until your father was good enough to secure
me a position in the railroad-agent's office in Port Agnew. Of course,
after I became an employe of the railroad company, I could travel on a
pass, so I used to go up to Seattle every Saturday, leaving here on
the morning train. Your father arranged matters in some way so that I
worked but five days a week."
"Naturally. Dad's a pretty heavy shipper over the line."
"I would receive my lessons late Saturday afternoons, stay overnight
with a friend of mine, and return to Port Agnew on Sunday. _He_ used
to board the train at--well, the name of the station doesn't
matter--every Saturday, and one day we got acquainted, quite by
accident as it were. Our train ran through an open switch and collided
with the rear end of a freight; there was considerable excitement, and
everybody spoke to everybody else, and after that it didn't appear
that we were strangers. The next Saturday, when he boarded the train,
he sat down in the same seat with me and asked permission to introduce
himself. He was very nice, and his manners were beautiful; he didn't
act in the least like a man who desired to 'make a mash.' Finally, one
day, he asked me to have dinner with him in Seattle, and I accepted. I
think that was because I'd never been in a fashionable restaurant in
all my life. After dinner, he escorted me to the studio, and on Sunday
morning we took the same train home again. He was such good company
and such a jolly, worldly fellow--so thoughtful and deferential! Can't
you realize, Donald, how he must have appealed to a little country
goose like me?
"Well, finally, daddy Brent learned that Signor Moretti, a tenor who
had retired from grand opera, had opened a studio in San Francisco. We
both wanted Moretti to pass on my voice, but we couldn't afford the
expense of a journey to San Francisco for two, so daddy sent me alone.
I wrote--that man about our plans, and told him the name of the
steamer I was sailing on. Your father gave me a passage on one of his
steam-schooners, and when we got to the dock in San Francisco--"
"_He_ was there, eh? Came down by train and beat the steamer in."
Donald nodded his comprehension. "What did Moretti say about your
voice?"
"The usual thing. My Seattle teacher had almost ruined my voice, he
declared, but, for all that, he was very enthusiastic and promised me
a career within five years if I would place myself unreservedly in his
hands. Of course, we couldn't afford such an expensive career, and the
realization that I had to forego even the special inducements Signor
Moretti was generous enough to make me quite broke my heart. When I
told _him_ about it--we were engaged by that time--he suggested that
we get married immediately, in order that I might reside with him in
San Francisco and study under Moretti. So we motored out into the
country one day and were married at San José. He asked me to keep our
marriage secret on account of some clause in his father's will, but I
insisted upon my right to tell daddy Brent. Poor old dear! My marriage
was such a shock to him; but he agreed with me that it was all for the
best--"
"Well, I was quite happy for three months. My husband's business
interests necessitated very frequent trips North--"
"What business was he in, Nan?"
"That is immaterial," she evaded him. "Presently, Signer Moretti
contracted a severe cold and closed his studio for a month. My
husband--I suppose I must call him that to identify him when I refer
to him--had just gone North on one of his frequent trips, and since he
always kept me generously supplied with money, I decided suddenly to
take advantage of Moretti's absence to run up to Port Agnew and visit
my father.
"In Seattle, as I alighted from the train, I saw my husband in the
station with another woman. I recognized her. She was a friend of
mine--a very dear, kind, thoughtful friend of several years'
standing--the only woman friend I had in the world. I loved her
dearly; you will understand when I tell you that she had frequently
gone out of her way to be kind to me. It struck me as strange that he
had never admitted knowing her, although frequently he had heard me
speak of her. While I stood pondering the situation, he took her in
his arms and kissed her good-by and boarded the train without seeing
me. I slipped out of the station without having been seen by either of
them; but while I was waiting for a taxicab, my friend came out of the
station, saw me, and rushed up to greet me. It developed, in the
course of our conversation following the usual commonplaces of
greeting, that she had been down to the station to see her husband off
on the train for San Francisco."
Donald whistled softly.
"How did you manage to get away with it, Nan?" he demanded
incredulously.
"All my life I have been used to doing without things," she replied
simply. "I suppose that helped a little. The shock was not so abrupt
that I lost my presence of mind; you see, I had had a few minutes to
adjust myself after seeing him kiss her in the station--and just then
the taxicab came up and I escaped. Then I came home to the Sawdust
Pile. I wrote him, of course, and sent the letter by registered mail,
in order to make certain he would receive it. He did, but he did not
answer. There was no reason why he should, for he was quite safe. I
had assured him there was no necessity for worry on my account."
"Of all the crazy, fool things for you to do!" Donald cried sharply.
"Why under the canopy did you deem it necessary to sacrifice yourself
for him? Surely you did not love him--"
"I'm afraid I never loved him," she interrupted. "I--I thought I did,
although, if he hadn't been away so frequently after our marriage, I
would have learned to love him dearly, I think."
"Just human nature," Donald suggested. "Something akin to what
trapshooters and golfers call a mental hazard."
"Of course he married me under an assumed name, Donald."
"Did you ever see a marriage certificate?"
"Oh, yes; I had to sign it in the presence of the minister."
Donald was relieved.
"Then, you great goose of a girl, you can clear your record any time
you desire. The minister forwarded the marriage certificate to the
state capital, and it is registered there with the State Board of
Health. After registration, it was returned to the minister whose
signature appeared on the certificate as the officiating clergyman.
The minister undoubtedly returned the certificate to your husband."
"I never saw it again."
"What if you did not? You can procure a certified copy from the record
in the county-clerk's office or from the records of the State Board of
Health. Marriage records, old dear, are fairly well protected in our
day and generation."
"I wrote to the State Board of Health at Sacramento. There is no
record of my marriage there."
"That's strange. Why didn't you write the county clerk, of the county
in which the license was issued?"
She smiled at him.
"I did. I had to, you know. My honor was at stake. The license was
issued in Santa Clara County."
"Well, it will be a simple matter to comb the list of ministers until
we find the one that tied the knot. A certified copy of the marriage
license, with a sworn affidavit by the officiating clergyman--"
"The officiating clergyman is dead. A private detective agency in San
Francisco discovered that for us."
"But couldn't you cover your tracks, Nan? Under the circumstances, a
lie--any kind of deceit to save your good name--would have been
pardonable."
"I couldn't help being smirched. Remember, my father was the only
person in Port Agnew who knew I had been married; he heeded my request
and kept the secret. Suddenly I returned home with a tale of marriage
in anticipation of my ability to prove it. In that I failed. Presently
my baby was born. People wondered who my husband was, and where he
kept himself; some of the extremely curious had the hardihood to come
here and question me. Was my husband dead? Of course not. Had I fibbed
and told them he was, they would have asked when and where and the
nature of the disease that carried him off. Was I divorced? Again I
was confronted with the necessity for telling the truth, because a lie
could be proved. Then the minister, to quiet certain rumors that had
reached him--he wanted me to sing in the choir again, and there was an
uproar when he suggested it--wrote to the California State Board of
Health. When he received a reply to his letter, he visited me to talk
it over, but I wasn't confiding in Mr. Tingley that day. He said I
might hope for salvation if I confessed my wickedness and besought
forgiveness from God. He offered to pray for me and with me. He meant
well--poor, silly dear!--but he was so terribly incredulous that
presently I told him I didn't blame him a bit and suggested that I be
permitted to paddle my own canoe, as it were. Thanked him for calling,
but told him he needn't call again. He departed in great distress."
"I hold no brief for the Reverend Tingley, Nan; but I'll be shot if
your story will hold water in a world that's fairly well acquainted
with the frailty of humankind. Of course I believe you--and, for some
fool reason, I'm not ashamed of my own intelligence in so believing. I
have accepted you on faith. What sets my reason tottering on its
throne is the fact that you insist upon protecting this scoundrel."
"I insist upon protecting his wife. I love her. She has been kind to
me. She's the only friend of my own sex that I have ever known. She's
tubercular, and will not live many years. She has two children--and
she adores her scamp of a husband. If I cannot convict that man of
bigamy, would it not be foolish of me to try? And why should I inflict
upon her, who has shown me kindness and love, a brimming measure of
humiliation and sorrow and disgrace? I can bear my burden a year or
two longer, I think; then, when she is gone, I can consider my
vindication." She patted his hand to emphasize her unity of purpose.
"That's the way I've figured it all out--the whole, crazy-quilt
pattern, and if you have a better scheme, and one that isn't founded
on human selfishness, I'm here to listen to it."
A long silence fell between them.
"Well, dear heart?" she demanded finally.
"I wasn't thinking of _that_," he replied slowly. "I was just trying
to estimate how much more I love you this minute than I did five
minutes ago."
He drew her golden head down on his shoulder and held her to him a
long time without speaking. It was Nan who broke the spell by saying:
"When the time comes for my vindication, I shall ask you to attend to
it for me, dear. You're my man--and I think it's a man's task."
His great fingers opened and closed in a clutching movement. He
nodded.