As a wife, it is probable that Nellie McKaye had not been an
altogether unqualified success. She lacked tact, understanding and
sympathy where her husband was concerned; she was one of that numerous
type of wife who loses a great deal of interest in her husband after
their first child is born. The Laird's wife was normally intelligent,
peacefully inclined, extremely good-looking both as to face and
figure, despite her years, and always abnormally concerned over what
the most inconsequential people in the world might think of her and
hers. She had a passion for being socially "correct." Flights of
imagination were rarely hers; on the few occasions when they were, her
thoughts had to do with an advantageous marriage for Jane and
Elizabeth, who, it must be confessed, had not had very good luck
holding on to the few eligible young bachelors who had seemed, for a
brief period, to regard them with serious intent. The poor soul was
worried about the girls, as well she might be, since the strides of
time were rapidly bearing both into the sere-and-yellow-leaf period of
life. For her son, she had earnest, passionate mother love, but since,
like all mothers, she was obsessed with the delusion that every girl
in the world, eligible and ineligible, was busy angling for her
darling, she had left his matrimonial future largely to his father.
Frequently her conscience smote her for her neglect of old Hector, but
she smoothed it by promising herself to devote more time to him, more
study to his masculine needs for wifely devotion, as soon as Elizabeth
and Jane should be settled.
Her son's acute illness and the possibility that he might not survive
it had brought her closer to The Laird than these twain had been in
twenty years; the blow that had all but crushed him had not even
staggered her, for she told herself that, during this crisis she must
keep her feet and her head. A wave of pity for her husband and a tinge
of shame for her years of neglect of him revived more than a modicum
of the old honeymoon tenderness, and, to her mild amazement, she
discovered that she was still, in old Hector's eyes, young and
beautiful; her breast, her lips, still had power to soothe and
comfort.
In those trying days she was The Laird's greatest asset. With maternal
stubbornness, she resolutely refused to entertain the thought that her
son might die. She could understand the possibility of some other
woman's son dying, but not hers! she, who knew him so well (or thought
she did, which amounts to the same thing), met with gentle tolerance
and contempt the portentous nods and anxious glances of doctors and
trained nurses. 'Fraid-cats--every last one of them! She told old
Hector so and, to a considerable extent, succeeded in making him
believe it.
After The Laird's interview with Andrew Daney he came home that night
to The Dreamerie, and, to please Nellie, he pretended to partake of
some dinner. Also, during the course of the meal he suddenly decided
to relate to his wife and daughters as much as he knew of the course
of the affair between Donald and Nan Brent; he repeated his
conversation with Nan on the two occasions he had spoken with her,
and gave them to understand that his efforts to induce Donald to "be
sensible" had not been successful. Finally, his distress making him
more communicative, he related the cunning stratagem by which Daney
had made it possible for Donald to be separated from the source of
temptation.
Elizabeth was the first to comment on his extraordinary revelations
when he appeared to have finished his recital.
"The girl has a great deal more character than I supposed," she opined
in her soft, throaty contralto.
"She played the game in an absolutely ripping manner!" Jane declared
enthusiastically. "I had no idea she was possessed of so much force.
Really, I should love to be kind to her, if that were at all possible
now."
The Laird smiled but without animus.
"You had ample opportunity once, Janey," he reminded her. "But then,
of course, unlike Donald and myself, you had no opportunity for
realizing what a fine, wholesome lass she is." He lowered his gaze and
rolled a bread-crumb nervously between thumb and forefinger. "They
tell me at the hospital, Nellie," he began again presently, "that her
absence is killing our boy--that he'll die if she doesn't come back.
They've been whispering to Daney, and this afternoon he mentioned the
matter to me." Three pairs of eyes bent upon him; gazes of mingled
curiosity and distress. "Have you heard aught of such talk from the
doctors and nurses," he continued, addressing them collectively.
"I have," said Mrs. McKaye meekly, and the two girls nodded. "I think
it's all poppycock," Jane added.
"It isn't all poppycock, my dear," old Hector rebuked her. He rolled
another bread-crumb. "Andrew has her address," he resumed after a long
silence. "She's in New York. He asked me to wire her to come
immediately, or else permit him to wire her in my name. I refused. I
told Daney that our boy's case was in the hands of God Almighty."
"Oh, Hector!" Mrs. McKaye had spoken. There was gentle reproach and
protest in her voice, but she camouflaged it immediately by adding:
"You poor dear, to be called upon to make such a decision."
"His decision was absolutely right," Elizabeth declared. "I'd almost
prefer to see my brother decently dead than the laughing-stock of the
town, married to a woman that no respectable person would dare receive
in her home."
Old Hector looked up in time to see Jane nod approval of her sister's
sentiments, and Mrs. McKaye, by her silence, appeared also to agree
with them. The Laird reached forth and laid his great hand over hers.
"Poor Nellie!" he murmured affectionately. "'Tis hard to stand between
our love and duty, is it not, lass? By God, sweetheart, I had to do
it. I couldn't stand to see him wedded wie a lass that any man or
woman could throw mud at." His voice shook with the intensity of his
emotion; his flashing glance swept the board in pitiful defiance. "I
have a right to protect my honor and the honor of my house!" he cried
sharply. "Is not Jesus Christ the embodiment of honor? How can He
blame me if I trust in His power and discretion. I've prayed to
Him--ach, man, how I've prayed to Him--to keep my son from makin' a
fule o' himself--"
"Now, there you go again, Hector, dear," his wife soothed. She rose
from her place at the table, came round to him, put her arms around
his great neck, and laid her cheek against his. "An open confession is
good for the soul, they say, Hector. I'm glad you've taken us into
your confidence, because it permits us to share with you an equal
burden of this heart-breaking decision. But you mustn't feel badly,
father. Haven't I told you our boy isn't going to die?"
"Do you really think so, Nellie?" he pleaded childishly, and for the
hundredth time.
"Silly old Hector! I know so." And this time there was in her voice
such a new note of confidence and in her eyes such a gleam of triumph
that she actually did succeed in comforting him. "Ah, well, God's will
be done," he said piously, and attacked his dinner again, while Mrs.
McKaye slipped out of the room and up-stairs on some pretext. Once in
her bedroom, she seized the extension telephone and called up Andrew
Daney.
"Andrew," she said softly but distinctly, "this is Nellie McKaye
speaking. Hector and I have been discussing the advisability of
sending for the Brent girl."
"I--I was goin' to take the matter up with you, Mrs. McKaye. I had a
talk with your husband this afternoon, but he was a bit wild--"
"He isn't so wild now, Andrew. He's talked it over with the girls and
me. It's a terrible alternative, Andrew, but it simply means our boy's
life for the gratification of our own selfish family pride--"
"Exactly! Exactly! And though I understand just how you feel, Mrs.
McKaye, after all, now, it's only a nine days' wonder, and you can't
keep people from talking anyhow, unless you gag the brutes. The boy
has been raving, and some of the hospital attendants have talked, and
the gossip is all over town again. So why not send for her? She
doesn't have to marry him just because her presence will revive his
sinking morale--"
"Certainly not. My idea, exactly, Andrew. Well, Andrew, suppose you
telegraph her--"
"No, no, no! I'll telephone her. Remember, we have a transcontinental
telephone service nowadays. She might not realize the vital necessity
for speed; she might question her right to come if I tried to cover
the situation in a telegram. But, catch her on the 'phone, Mrs.
McKaye, and you can talk to her and convince her."
"Oh, that's perfectly splendid! Place the call for me immediately,
Andrew, please. And--Andrew, don't mention to Hector what I've done.
He wants to do it, poor man, but he simply cannot bring himself to the
point of action."
"Don't I know it?" Daney's voice rose triumphant. "The blessed old
duffer!" he added. "I'll put in a call for New York immediately. We
ought to get it through in an hour or two."