Caleb Brent's funeral was the apotheosis of simplicity. Perhaps a
score of the old sailor's friends and neighbors attended, and there
were, perhaps, half a dozen women--motherly old souls who had known
Nan intimately in the days when she associated with their daughters
and who felt in the presence of death a curious unbending of a curious
and indefinable hostility. Sam Carew, arrayed in the conventional
habiliments of his profession, stood against the wall and closed his
eyes piously when Hector McKaye, standing beside old Caleb, spoke
briefly and kindly of the departed and with a rough eloquence that
stirred none present--not even Nan, who, up to that moment, entirely
ignorant of The Laird's intention, could only gaze at him, amazed and
incredulous--more than it stirred The Laird himself. The sonorous and
beautiful lines of the burial service took on an added beauty and
dignity as he read them, for The Laird believed! And when he had
finished reading the service, he looked up, and his kind gaze lay
gently on Nan Brent as he said:
"My friends, we will say a wee bit prayer for Caleb wi' all the
earnestness of our hearts. O Lorrd, now that yon sailor has towed out
on his last long cruise, we pray thee to gie him a guid pilot--aye, an
archangel, for he was ever an honest man and brave--to guide him to
thy mansion. Forgie him his trespasses and in thy great mercy grant
comfort to this poor bairn he leaves behind. And thine shall be the
honor and the glory, forever and ever. Amen!"
None present, except Donald, realized the earnestness of that prayer,
for, as always under the stress of deep emotion, The Laird had grown
Scotchy. Mrs. Tingley, a kindly little soul who had felt it her
Christian duty to be present, moved over to the little organ, and Nan,
conspicuous in a four-year-old tailored suit and a black sailor-hat,
rose calmly from her seat and stood beside the minister's wife. For a
moment, her glance strayed over the little audience. Then she
sang--not a hymn, but just a little song her father had always
liked--the haunting, dignified melody that has been set to Stevenson's
"Requiem."
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
_Here he lies where he longed to be.
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter, home from the hill_.
The Laird, watching her narrowly, realized the effort it was costing
her; yet her glorious voice did not break or quiver once. "You
wonderful, wonderful woman!" he thought, moved to a high pitch of
admiration for her independence and her flagrant flaunting of
tradition, "What a wife for my boy--what a mother for my grandson--if
you hadn't spoiled it all!"
She rode to the cemetery in The Laird's car with The Laird, Donald,
and Mrs. Tingley. Leaning on Donald's arm, she watched them hide old
Caleb beneath the flowers from the gardens of The Dreamerie; then The
Laird read the service at the grave and they returned to the Sawdust
Pile, where Nan's child (he had been left at home in charge of a nurse
from the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital) experienced more or less
difficulty deciding whether Donald or The Laird was his father.
The Laird now considered his duty to Caleb Brent accomplished. He
remained at the Sawdust Pile a period barely sufficient for Nan to
express her sense of obligation.
"In a month, my dear girl," he whispered, as he took her hand, "you'll
have had time to adjust yourself and decide on the future. Then we'll
have a little talk."
She smiled bravely up at him through misty eyes and shook her head.
She read his thoughts far better than he knew.
Father and son repaired to the private office at the mill, and The
Laird seated himself in his old swivel chair.
"Now then, lad," he demanded, "have I been a good sport?"
"You have, indeed, father! I'm grateful to you."
"You needn't be. I wouldn't have missed that funeral for considerable.
That girl can sing like an angel, and, man, the courage of her! 'Twas
sweet of her, singing to old Caleb like that, but I much mistake if
she won't be talked about for it. 'Twill be said she's heartless." He
handed his son a cigar and snipped the end off one for himself. "We'll
be needing the Sawdust Pile now for a drying-yard," he announced
complacently.
"You mean----"
"I mean, my son, that you're dreaming of the impossible, and that it's
time for you to wake up. I want no row about it. I can't bear to hear
your mother and sisters carrying on longer. I'll never get over
thinking what a pity it is that girl is damaged goods. She must not be
wife to son of mine."
The young laird of Tyee bowed his head.
"I can't give her up, father," he murmured. "By God, I can't!"
"There can be no happiness without honor, and you'll not be the first
to make our name a jest in the mouths of Port Agnew. You will write
her and tell her of my decision; if you do not wish to, then I shall
do it for you. Trust her to understand and not hold it against you.
And it is my wish that you should not see her again. She must be cared
for, but when that time comes, I shall attend to it; you know me well
enough to realize I'll do that well." He laid his hand tenderly on the
young man's shoulder. "This is your first love, my son. Time and hard
work will help you forget--and I'll wait for my grandson."
"And if I should not agree to this--what?"
"Obey me for a month--and then ask me that question if you will.
I'm--I'm a bit unprepared for an answer on such short notice."
Donald bowed his head.
"Very well, sir. I'll think it over for a month--on one condition."
"Thank you, my son," said The Laird of Tyee. "And what is the
condition?"
"Let mother and the girls go to Seattle or Honolulu or Shanghai or
some other seaport--anywhere, provided they're not at The Dreamerie
when I return to Port Agnew. I'm going to spend that damnable month in
the woods, week-ends and all, and wrestle with this problem."
Old Hector smiled a small smile.
"I'm an old ass," he declared. "Have it your own way, only--by the
gods, I ought to teach them sense. I've spoiled them, and I ought to
unspoil them. They drive me crazy, much as I love them."
* * * * *
The Laird went home that afternoon lighter of heart than he had been
for a month. He told himself that his firm stand with Donald had
rather staggered that young man, and that a month of reflection, far
from the disturbing influence of Nan Brent's magnetic presence, would
induce Donald to adopt a sensible course.