From the company hospital, The Laird went straight to his general
manager's office. Entering, he strode to Daney's desk and transfixed
that harassed individual with an accusing finger.
"Andrew, this is your work, is it not?"
Mr. Daney's heart skipped a beat, but he remembered this was Friday
morning. So he decided not to be foolish and spar for time by asking
The Laird what work he referred to. Also, having read somewhere that,
in battle, the offensive frequently wins--the defensive never--he
glared defiantly at The Laird and growled.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" His demeanor appeared to
say: "This is my work, and I'm proud of it."
To Daney's profound amazement, The Laird smiled benignantly and thrust
out his hand, which Mr. Daney shook gingerly, as one might a can of
nitroglycerin.
"I thank you more than you will ever realize, Andrew, for taking this
matter out of my hands. I left the decision up to the Almighty and
evidently he inspired you to disobey me and save the day--without
compromising me."
"Pooh! That's the easiest thing I do." Mr. Daney's courage had
returned with a rush. "For heaven's sake, don't talk about it, sir. I
placed a call for the girl on the telephone--at your expense. Yes,
sir; I talked with her clear across the continent, and before she
even started from New York, it was understood that she is to jilt
Donald the minute the doctors pronounce him strong enough to stand
jilting."
"She told me, practically, the same thing. Oh, Andrew, Andrew, my boy,
this is bully work! Bully! Bully!"
Mr. Daney replied to this encomium with a deprecatory shrug and hoped
The Laird would never ask _him who had made the bargain_. Thus far, he
flattered himself, he had not strayed from the straight and narrow
path of strict veracity, and he hoped he would not have to. To obviate
this, he decided to get rid of The Laird immediately; so he affected
embarrassment; fussed with the pile of mail on his desk, and growled:
"All right, boss. If you're satisfied, I am. I haven't been able to
sleep very well since I started mixing in your family affairs, and
without sleep a man cannot hold up his job. I've got a lot of work to
do, and I cannot have any idle, interfering fellows stampeding round
my office; so I suggest that you run up to The Dreamerie to break the
good news to your poor wife and the girls, and let me get something
done."
"All right, Andrew; I'll go in a minute. Er--ah--you're certain,
Andrew, the girl understands quite thoroughly that I haven't had a
thing to do with bringing her back to Port Agnew?" The Laird smote the
desk resolutely; he desired to be absolutely certain of his ground.
Mr. Daney looked up with a slight frown.
"I'll answer your question with another. Have you seen and talked with
Nan Brent this morning?"
"Yes. I did--the minute she entered Donald's room."
"And you demanded a show-down then and there?"
Parenthetically it may be stated that Mr. Daney's intimate knowledge
of The Laird's character prompted this question. He was certain of an
affirmative reply.
"I did."
"And her answer was satisfactory?"
"Absolutely!"
"So I judged from the fact that you shook hands with me upon entering
my office. I had expected nothing more nor less than instant
dismissal.... Well, since you desire the girl's testimony confirmed, I
repeat that she came out here on the distinct understanding that
Donald's family had not receded from its original position. This is a
business trip, pure and simple, in so far as the McKaye family is
concerned, although I grant you there is a heap of sentiment on Nan's
part--at least sufficient to persuade her to do anything for the boy's
sake. She places his welfare above her own."
The Laird nodded.
"The girl is capable of doing the most unexpected things, Andrew. I
really think she'll play the game. When she told me what her
intentions were, I believe she stated the absolute truth."
"Well, let us hope she doesn't change them, sir. Remember, she has no
more intention of marrying him this morning than she had when she fled
from Port Agnew. I was certain of that when listening to her on the
telephone the other night. However, sir, I want to go on record, here
and now, as disclaiming responsibility for anything that may occur
hereafter. I am not the seventh son of a seventh son, and neither was
I born with a caul. Hence, I do not pretend to foretell future events
with any degree of exactitude. I simply guarantee you, sir, that the
girl realizes that you have had nothing whatsoever, directly or
indirectly, to do with the request for her return. Also, I give you my
word of honor that I have not made her a single promise--directly or
indirectly."
"Well, I am relieved. I dreaded the thought that I might be
compromised--indirectly, for, as you well know, Andrew, I have a
repugnance to asking favors from anybody to whom I am not prepared to
grant them. My son is my chief happiness. Now, if I were to ask her to
save my happiness, while at the same time reserving the right to deny
the girl hers--well, thank God, I'm saved that embarrassment! Thanks
to you, you fox!" he added.
"Bless my wicked heart! I'm glad you've gone and that I'm out of it so
easy," the general manager soliloquized, as the door closed behind The
Laird.
He reached for the telephone and called Mrs. McKaye at The Dreamerie.
"Your husband is on his way home, Mrs. McKaye," he advised her. "The
girl is here, The Laird has met her and talked with her and is quite
happy over the situation. However, I want to warn you that you will
avoid unpleasantness by keeping from him the fact that you asked the
Brent girl to come back to Port Agnew. He thinks I did that, and I
have not seen fit, for reasons of my own, to deny it."
"Why, I asked you not to tell him, Andrew," she replied, surprised
that he should forget it.
"I know. But you had planned to tell him yourself if, after the girl
had arrived, you discovered he was secretly pleased that she had
come."
"Yes; that is true. However, since you say Hector is quite pleased
with the situation, why should I not tell him, Andrew?"
"I have a suspicion the news will trouble him. He is quite willing to
accept of the girl's services, as it were, but not at the behest of
any member of his family. Better hear what he has to say on the
subject before you commit yourself, Mrs. McKaye."
"Oh, I think I can be depended upon to manage Hector," she replied
confidently, and hung up, for already through the window she could see
The Laird's car taking the grade up Tyee Head. He arrived a few
minutes later and entered smilingly, rubbing his hands as indicative
of his entire satisfaction with the universe as constituted that
morning.
"My dears, I have wonderful news for you!" he announced.
Elizabeth, warned by her mother of the impending announcement, and
already in the latter's confidence regarding the long-distance
conversation with Nan Brent, interrupted him. She was a born actress.
"Oh, do tell us quickly, daddy dear," she gushed, and flew to throw
her arms round his neck. Over his shoulder she winked at Jane and her
mother and grimaced knowingly.
"Donald's going to pull through. The doctors feel certain he'll take
in the slack on his life-line, now that the Brent girl has suddenly
turned up. In fact, the lad has been holding his own since he received
a telegram from her some days back. I didn't tell you about that, my
dears, not being desirous of worrying you; and since it was no doings
of mine, I saw it could not be helped, and we'd have to make the best
of it."
"Oh, daddy! How could you? That's perfectly dreadful news!" the
artful Elizabeth cried, while her mother raised her eyes resignedly
upward and clasped her hands so tightly that they trembled. The Laird
thought his wife sought comfort from above; had he known that she had
just delivered a sincere vote of thanks, he would not have hugged her
to his heart, as he forthwith proceeded to do.
"Now, now, Nellie, my dear," he soothed her, "it's all for the best.
Don't cross your bridges before you come to them. Wait till I tell you
everything. That fox, Daney, had the common sense to call the girl on
the telephone and explain the situation; he induced her to come out
here and tease that soft-hearted moonstruck son of ours back to life.
And when Donald's strong enough to stand alone--by Jupiter, that's
exactly how he's going to stand!--We're not the slightest bit
compromised, my dears. The McKaye family is absolutely in the clear.
The girl has done this solely for Donald's sake."
"Hector McKaye," Jane declared, "you've really got to do something
very handsome for Andrew Daney."
"Yes, indeed," Elizabeth cooed.
"Dear, capable, faithful Andrew!" Mrs. McKaye sighed.
"Ah, he's a canny lad, is Andrew," old Hector declared happily. "He
took smart care not to compromise me, for well he knows my code. When
I rejected his suggestion that I send for the lass, Andrew knew why
without asking foolish questions. Well, he realized that if I should
ask her to come and save my son, I would not be unfair enough to tell
her later that she was not a fit wife for that son. As a matter o'
manly principle, I would have had to withdraw my opposition, and
Donald could wed her if he liked and with my blessing, for all the
bitter cost. I did not build The Dreamerie with the thought that
Donald would bring a wife like this Brent lass home to live in it,
but--God be thanked!--the puir bairn loves him too well to ruin him--"
He broke off, wiping his eyes, moist now with the pressure of his
emotions, and while he was wiping them, Mrs. McKaye and her daughters
exchanged frightened glances. Elizabeth's penchant for ill-timed humor
disappeared; she stood, alert and awed, biting her lip. Jane's
eyebrows went up in quick warning to her mother, who paled and flushed
alternately. The latter understood now why Andrew Daney had taken the
precaution to warn her against the danger of conjugal confidences in
the matter of Nan Brent; devoutly she wished she had had the common
sense to have left those delicate negotiations entirely in the hands
of dear, capable, faithful Andrew, for, delicate as they had been, she
realized now, when it was too late, that in all probability Mr. Daney,
although a mere man, would have concluded them without compromising
the McKaye family. Surely he would have had the good taste to assure
Nan that he was acting entirely upon his own initiative.
On the instant, Mrs. McKaye hated the unfortunate general manager. She
told herself that, had he been possessed of the brains of a chipmunk,
he would have pointed out to her the danger of her course; that he had
not done so was proof that the craven had feared to compromise
himself. He had made a cat's-paw of her, that's what he had done! He
had taken advantage of a momentary lack of caution--the result of her
impetuous mother love. Ah, what a blockhead the man was, not to have
warned her of the diplomatic dangers she was risking! At that moment,
placid Nellie McKaye could have shrieked with fury; it would have been
a relief to her if she could have stuck her hatpin in that monumental
chucklehead, Daney. Like so many of her sex, the good lady's code of
sportsmanship was a curious one, to say the least. It had not been
prudence but an instinctive desire to protect her son that had moved
her to be careful when begging Nan to return to Port Agnew, to
indicate that this request predicated no retirement from the resolute
stand which the family had taken against the latter's alliance with
Donald. In a hazy, indefinite way, she had realized the importance of
nullifying any tendency on her part to compromise herself or her
family by the mere act of telephoning to Nan, and with the
unintentional brutality of a not very intelligent, tactless woman she
had taken this means of protection.
Curiously enough, it had not occurred to her until this moment that
she had done something shameful and cruel and stupid and unwomanly.
She shriveled mentally in the contemplation of it. Not until her
husband had so unexpectedly revealed to her a hitherto hidden facet of
his character--his masculine code of an eye for an eye and a tooth for
a tooth--did she realize how dreadfully she had blundered. She
realized now that, without having given the slightest thought to the
commission of an act unworthy of her womanhood, she had acted because,
to her, the end appeared to justify the means; never given to
self-analysis, she had merely followed the imperative call of her
mother love to the point where nothing mattered save results.
She looked up tearfully at The Laird. For thirty-odd years she had
lived with this strange soul; yet she had not known until now how
fierce was his desire for independence, how dear to him was his
passion for self-respect. Even now, she found it difficult to
understand why, even if he had been able to subdue his pride to the
point of asking Nan Brent to preserve life in that which was dearer to
him than his own life, his passion for always giving value received
should preclude bargaining with the girl. It was plain to her,
therefore, that her husband could never love their son as his mother
loved him, else, in a matter of life or death, he would not have
paused to consider the effect on himself of any action that might
safeguard his son's existence. She knew what he had thought when Daney
first proposed the matter to him. That sort of thing wasn't "playing
the game." Poor, troubled soul! She did not know that he was capable
of playing any game to the finish, even though every point scored
against him should burn like a branding-iron.
The Laird, noting her great distress, held her fondly in his arms and
soothed her; manlike, he assumed that she wept because her heart was
overflowing with joy. For half an hour he chatted with her; then, with
a light step and a cheerful "Good-by, Nellie, wife," he entered his
automobile and drove back to town.
His departure was the signal for Jane and Elizabeth to rally to their
mother's side and inaugurate a plan of defense.
"Well, mother dear," Elizabeth opined calmly, "it appears that you've
spilled the beans."
"What a funny old popsy-wops it is, to be sure!" Jane chirped. "It's
fine to be such a grand old sport, but so dreadfully inconvenient!
Beth, can you imagine what father McKaye would say if he only knew?"
"I wouldn't mind the things he'd say. The things he'd do would be apt
to linger longest in our memories."
"Oh, my dears, what shall I do?" poor Mrs. McKaye quavered.
"Stand pat, should necessity ever arise, and put the buck up to Mr.
Daney," the slangy Elizabeth suggested promptly. "He has warned you
not to confess to father, hasn't he? Now, why did he do this? Answer.
Because he realized that if dad should learn that you telephoned this
odious creature from the Sawdust Pile, the head of our clan would
consider himself compromised--bound by the action of a member of his
clan, as it were. Then we'll have a wedding and after the wedding
we'll all be thrown out of The Dreamerie to make room for Master Don
and his consort. So, it appears to me, since Mr. Daney has warned you
not to tell, mother dear, that he cannot afford to tell on you
himself--no, not even to save his own skin."
"You do not understand, Elizabeth," Mrs. McKaye sobbed. "It isn't
because that stupid Andrew cares a snap of his finger for us; it's
because he's devoted to Hector and doesn't want him worried or made
unhappy."
And in this observation, it is more than probable that the lady spoke
more truly than she realized.
"Oh, well, if that's the case, it's all as clear as mud!" Jane cried
triumphantly. "If the worst should ever come to the worst, Mr. Daney
will lie like a gentleman and--why, he has already done so, silly! Of
course he has, and it's rather gallant of him to do it, I think."
"He's an imbecile, and why Hector has employed him all these
years--why he trusts him so implicitly, I'm sure I am at a loss to
comprehend." Mrs. McKaye complained waspishly.
"Dear, capable, faithful Andrew!" Elizabeth mimicked her mother's
speech earlier in the day. "Cheer up, ma! Cherries are ripe." She
snapped her fingers, swayed her lithe body, and undulated gracefully
to the piano, where she brought both hands down on the keys with a
crash, and played ragtime with feverish fury for five minutes. Then,
her impish nature asserting itself, she literally smashed out the
opening bars of the Wedding March from Lohengrin, and shouted with
glee when her mother, a finger in each ear, fled from the room.