Upon his arrival in Port Agnew, Donald called upon one Sam Carew. In
his youth, Mr. Carew had served his time as an undertaker's assistant,
but in Port Agnew his shingle proclaimed him to his world as a
"mortician." Owing to the low death-rate in that salubrious section,
however, Mr. Carew added to his labors those of a carpenter, and when
outside jobs of carpentering were scarce, he manufactured a few plain
and fancy coffins.
Donald routed Sam Carew out of bed with the news of Caleb Brent's
death and ordered him down to the Sawdust Pile in his capacity of
mortician; then he hastened there himself in advance of Mr. Carew. Nan
was in the tiny living-room, her head pillowed on the table, when
Donald entered, and when she had sobbed herself dry-eyed in his arms,
they went in to look at old Caleb. He had passed peacefully away an
hour after retiring for the night; Nan had straightened his limbs and
folded the gnarled hands over the still heart; in the great democracy
of death, his sad old face had settled into peaceful lines such as had
been present in the days when Nan was a child and she and her father
had been happy building a home on the Sawdust Pile. As Donald looked
at him and reflected on the tremendous epics of a career that the
world regarded as commonplace, when he recalled the sloop old Caleb
had built for him with so much pride and pleaure, the long-forgotten
fishing trips and races in the bight, the wondrous tales the old
sailor had poured into his boyish ears, together with the affection
and profound respect, as for a superior being, which the old man had
always held for him, the young laird of Tyee mingled a tear or two
with those of the orphaned Nan.
"I've told Sam Carew to come for him," he informed Nan, when they had
returned to the living-room. "I shall attend to all of the funeral
arrangements. Funeral the day after to-morrow, say in the morning. Are
there any relatives to notify?"
"None that would be interested, Donald."
"Do you wish a religious service?"
"Certainly not by the Reverend Tingley."
"Then I'll get somebody else. Anything else? Money, clothes?"
She glanced at him with all the sweetness and tenderness of her great
love lambent in her wistful sea-blue eyes.
"What a poor thing is pride in the face of circumstances," she replied
drearily. "I haven't sufficient strength of character to send you
away. I ought to, for your own sake, but since you're the only one
that cares, I suppose you'll have to pay the price. You might lend me
a hundred dollars, dear. Perhaps some-day I'll repay it."
He laid the money in her hand and retained the hand in his; thus they
sat gazing into the blue flames of the driftwood fire--she hopelessly,
he with masculine helplessness. Neither spoke, for each was busy with
personal problems.
The arrival of Mr. Carew interrupted their sad thoughts. When he had
departed with the harvest of his grim profession, the thought that had
been uppermost in Donald's mind found expression.
"It's going to be mighty hard on you living here alone."
"It's going to be hard on me wherever I live--alone," she replied
resignedly.
"Wish I could get some woman to come and live with you until we can
adjust your affairs, Nan. Tingley's wife's a good sort. Perhaps--"
She shook her head.
"I prefer my own company--when I cannot have yours."
A wave of bitterness, of humiliation swept over him in the knowledge
that he could not ask one of his own sisters to help her. Truly he
dwelt in an unlovely world.
He glanced at Nan again, and suddenly there came over him a great
yearning to share her lot, even at the price of sharing her shame. He
was not ashamed of her, and she knew it; yet both were fearful of
revealing that fact to their fellow mortals. The conviction stole over
Donald McKaye that he was not being true to himself, that he was not a
man of honor in the fullest sense or a gentleman in the broadest
meaning of the word. And that, to the heir of a principality, was a
dangerous thought.
He then took tender leave of the girl and walked all the way home. His
father had not retired when he reached The Dreamerie, and the sight of
that stern yet kindly and wholly understandable person moved him to
sit down beside The Laird on the divan and take the old man's hand in
his childishly.
"Dad, I'm in hell's own hole!" he blurted. "I'm so unhappy!"
"Yes, son; I know you are. And it breaks me all up to think that, for
the first time in my life, I can't help you. All the money in the
world will not buy the medicine that'll cure you."
"I have to go through that, too, I suppose," his son complained, and
jerked his head toward the stairs, where, as a matter of fact, his
sister Jane crouched at the time, striving to eavesdrop. "I had a
notion, as I walked home, that I'd refuse to permit them to discuss my
business with me."
"This particular business of yours is, unfortunately, something which
they believe to be their business, also. God help me, I agree with
them!"
"Well, they had better be mighty careful how they speak of Nan Brent,"
Donald returned darkly. "This is something I have to fight out alone.
By the way, are you going to old Caleb's funeral, dad?"
"Certainly. I have always attended the funerals of my neighbors, and I
liked and respected Caleb Brent. Always reminded me of a lost dog. But
he had a man's pride. I'll say that for him."
"Thank you, father. Ten o'clock, the day after to-morrow, from the
little chapel. There isn't going to be a preacher present, so I'd be
obliged if you'd offer a prayer and read the burial service. That old
man and I were pals, and I want a real human being to preside at his
obsequies."
The Laird whistled softly. He was on the point of asking to be
excused, but reflected that Donald was bound to attend the funeral and
that his father's presence would tend to detract from the personal
side of the unprecedented spectacle and render it more of a matter of
family condescension in so far as Port Agnew was concerned.
"Very well, lad," he replied; "I'm forced to deny you so much 'twould
be small of me not to grant you a wee favor now and then. I'll do my
best. And you might send a nurse from the company hospital to stay
with Nan for a week or two."
"Good old file!" his son murmured gratefully, and, bidding his father
good-night, climbed the stairs to his room. Hearing his footsteps
ascending, Jane emerged from the rear of the landing; simultaneously,
his mother and Elizabeth appeared at the door of the latter's room. He
had the feeling of a captured missionary running the gantlet of a
forest of spears _en route_ to a grill over a bed of coals.
"Donald dear," Elizabeth called throatily, "come here."
"Donald dear is going to bed," he retorted savagely. "'Sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof.' Good-night!"
"But you _must_ discuss this matter with us!" Jane clamored. "How can
you expect us to rest until we have your word of honor that you--"
The Laird had appeared at the foot of the stairs, having followed his
son in anticipation of an interview which he had forbidden.
"Six months, Janey," he called up; "and there'll be no appeal from
that decision. Nellie! Elizabeth! Poor Jane will be lonesome in Port
Agnew, and I'm not wishful to be too hard on her. You'll keep her
company." There was a sound of closing doors, and silence settled
over The Dreamerie, that little white home that The Laird of Tyee had
built and dedicated to peace and love. For he was the master here.