A week elapsed before Hector McKaye would permit his son to return to
his duties. By that time, the slight wound in the latter's arm where
the vein had been opened had practically healed. Dirty Dan continued
to improve, passed the danger-mark, and began the upward climb to his
old vigor and pugnacity. Port Agnew, stirred to discussion over the
affray, forgot it within three days, and on the following Monday
morning Donald returned to the woods. The Laird of Tyee carried his
worries to the Lord in prayer, and Nan Brent frequently forgot her
plight and sang with something of the joy of other days.
A month passed. During that month, Donald had visited the Sawdust Pile
once and had written Nan thrice. Also, Mrs. Andrew Daney, hard beset
because of her second experience with the "Blue Bonnet" glance of a
McKaye, had decided to remove herself from the occasions of gossip and
be in a position to claim an alibi in the event of developments. So
she abandoned Daney to the mercies of a Japanese cook and departed for
Whatcom to visit a married daughter. From Whatcom, she wrote her
husband that she was enjoying her visit so much she hadn't the
slightest idea when she would return, and, for good and sufficient
reasons, Daney did not urge her to change her mind.
Presently, Mrs. McKaye and her daughters returned to Port Agnew. His
wife's letters to The Laird had failed to elicit any satisfactory
reason for his continued stay at home, and inasmuch as all three
ladies were deferring the trip to Honolulu on his account, they had
come to a mutual agreement to get to close quarters and force a
decision.
Mrs. McKaye had been inside The Dreamerie somewhat less than five
minutes before her instinct as a woman, coupled with her knowledge as
a wife, informed her that her spouse was troubled in his soul. Always
tactless, she charged him with it, and when he denied it, she was
certain of it. So she pressed him further, and was informed that he
had a business deal on; when she interrogated him as to the nature of
it (something she had not done in years), he looked at her and smoked
contemplatively. Immediately she changed the subject of conversation,
but made a mental resolve to keep her eyes and her ears open.
The Fates decreed that she should not have long to wait. Donald came
home from the logging-camp the following Saturday night, and the
family, having finished dinner, were seated in the living-room. The
Laird was smoking and staring moodily out to sea, Donald was reading,
Jane was at the piano softly playing ragtime, and Mrs. McKaye and
Elizabeth were knitting socks for suffering Armenians when the
telephone-bell rang. Jane immediately left the piano and went out into
the entrance-hall to answer it, the servants having gone down to Port
Agnew to a motion-picture show. A moment later, she returned to the
living-room, leaving the door to the entrance-hall open.
"You're wanted on the telephone, Don!" she cried gaily. "Such a sweet
voice, too!"
Mrs. McKaye and Elizabeth looked up from their knitting. They were
not accustomed to having Donald called to the telephone by young
ladies. Donald laid his magazine aside and strode to the telephone;
The Laird faced about in his chair, and a harried look crept into his
eyes.
"Close the door to the entrance-hall, Jane," he commanded.
"Oh, dear me, no!" his spoiled daughter protested. "It would be too
great a strain on our feminine curiosity not to eavesdrop on Don's
little romance."
"Close it!" The Laird repeated. He was too late. Through the open
door, Donald's voice reached them:
"Oh, you poor girl! I'm so sorry, Nan dear. I'll be over immediately."
His voice dropped several octaves, but the words came to the listeners
none the less distinctly. "Be brave, sweetheart."
Mrs. McKaye glanced at her husband in time to see him avert his face;
she noted how he clutched the arm of his chair.
To quote a homely phrase, the cat was out of the bag at last. Donald's
face wore a troubled expression as he reentered the living-room. His
mother spoke first.
"Donald! _My_ son!" she murmured tragically.
"Hum-m--!" The Laird grunted. The storm had broken at last, and,
following the trend of human nature, he was conscious of sudden
relief.
Jane was the first to recover her customary aplomb.
"Don dear," she cooed throatily, "are we mistaken in our assumption
that the person with whom you have just talked is Nan Brent?"
"Your penetration does you credit, Jane. It was."
"And did our ears deceive us or did we really hear you call her
'dear' and 'sweetheart'?"
"It is quite possible," Donald answered. He crossed the room and
paused beside his father. "Caleb Brent blinked out a few minutes ago,
dad. It was quite sudden. Heart-trouble. Nan's all alone down there,
and of course she needs help. I'm going. I'll leave to you the job of
explaining the situation to mother and the girls. Good-night, pop; I
think you understand."
Mrs. McKaye was too stunned, too horrified, to find refuge in tears.
"How dare that woman ring you up?" she demanded haughtily. "The
hussy!"
"Why, mother dear, she has to have help," her son suggested
reproachfully.
"But why from you, of all men? I forbid you to go!" his mother
quavered. "You must have more respect for us. Why, what will people
say?"
"To hell with what people say! They'll say it, anyhow," roared old
Hector. Away down in his proud old heart he felt a few cheers rising
for his son's manly action, albeit the necessity for that action was
wringing his soul. "'Tis no time for idle spierin'. Away with you,
lad! Comfort the puir lass. 'Tis no harm to play a man's part. Hear
me," he growled; "I'll nae have my soncy lad abused."
"Dad's gone back to the Hielands. 'Nough said." Elizabeth had
recovered her customary jolly poise. Wise enough, through long
experience, to realize that when her father failed to throttle that
vocal heritage from his forebears, war impended, she gathered up her
knitting and fled to her room.
Jane ran to her mother's side, drew the good lady's head down on her
shoulder, and faced her brother.
"Shame! Shame!" she cried sharply. "You ungrateful boy! How could you
hurt dear mother so!"
This being the cue for her mother to burst into violent weeping,
forthwith the poor soul followed up the cue. Donald, sore beset,
longed to take her in his arms and kiss away her tears, but something
warned him that such action would merely serve to accentuate the
domestic tempest, so, with a despairing glance at old Hector, he left
the room.
"Pretty kettle o' fish you've left me to bring to a boil!" the old man
cried after him. "O Lord! O Lord! Grant me the wisdom of Solomon, the
patience of Job, and the cunning of Judas Iscariot! God help my
mildewed soul!"