A month passed, and to the Sawdust Pile one evening, instead of Dirty
Dan, there came another messenger. It was Mr. Daney. To Nan's
invitation to enter and be seated, he gave ready acceptance; once
seated, however, he showed indubitable evidence of uneasiness, and
that he was the bearer of news of more than ordinary interest was
apparent by the nervous manner in which he twirled his hat and
scattered over her clean floor a quantity of sawdust which had
accumulated under the rim during his peregrinations round the mill
that day.
"Well, Nan, he went home to The Dreamerie this afternoon," the general
manager began presently. "Got up and dressed himself unaided, and
insisted on walking out to the car without assistance. He's back on a
solid diet now, and the way he's filling up the chinks in his
superstructure is a sight to marvel at. I expect he'll be back on the
job within a month."
"That is wonderful news, Mr. Daney."
"Of course," Daney continued, "his hair is falling out, and he'll soon
be as bald as a Chihuahua dog. But--it'll grow in again. Yes, indeed.
It'll grow in."
"Oh dear! I do hope it will grow out," she bantered, in an effort to
put him at his ease. "What a pity if his illness should leave poor Don
with a head like a thistle--with all the fuzzy-wuzzy inside."
He laughed.
"I'm glad to find you in such good spirits, Nan, because I've called
to talk business. And, for some reason or other, I do not relish my
job."
"Then, suppose I dismiss you from this particular job, Mr. Daney.
Suppose I decline to discuss business."
"Oh, but business is something that has to be discussed sooner or
later," he asured her, on the authority of one whose life had been
dedicated to that exacting duty. "I suppose you've kept track of your
expenses since you left New York. That, of course, will include the
outlay for your living-expenses while here, and in order to make
doubly certain that we are on the safe side, I am instructed to double
this total to cover the additional expenses of your return to New
York. And if you will set a value upon your lost time from the day you
left New York until your return, both days inclusive, I will include
that in the check also."
"Suppose I should charge you one thousand dollars a day for my lost
time," she suggested curiously.
"I should pay it without the slightest quibble. The Laird would be
delighted to get off so cheaply. He feels himself obligated to you for
returning to Port Agnew--"
"Did The Laird send you here to adjust these financial details with
me, Mr. Daney?"
"He did not. The matter is entirely in my hands. Certainly, in all
justice, you should be reimbursed for the expenses of a journey
voluntarily incurred for the McKaye benefit."
"Did he say so?"
"No. But I know him so well that I have little difficulty in
anticipating his desires. I am acting under Mrs. McKaye's promise to
you over the telephone to reimburse you."
"I am glad to know that, Mr. Daney. I have a very high regard for
Donald's father, and I should not care to convict him of an attempt to
settle with me on a cash basis for declining to marry his son. I wish
you would inform The Laird, Mr. Daney, that what I did was done
because it pleased me to do it for his sake and Donald's. They have
been at some pains, throughout the years, to be kind to the Brents,
but, unfortunately for the Brents, opportunities for reciprocity have
always been lacking until the night Mrs. McKaye telephoned me in New
York. I cannot afford the gratification of very many desires--even
very simple ones, Mr. Daney--but this happens to be one of the rare
occasions when I can. To quote Sir Anthony Gloster, 'Thank God I can
pay for my fancies!' The Laird doesn't owe me a dollar, and I beg you,
Mr. Daney, not to distress me by offering it."
"But, my dear girl, it has cost you at least five hundred dollars--"
"What a marvelous sunset we had this evening, Mr. Daney. Did you
observe it? My father always maintained that those curious clouds
predicated sou'west squalls."
"I didn't come here, girl, to talk about sunsets. You're foolish if
you do not accept--"
The outcast of Port Agnew turned upon Mr. Daney a pair of sea-blue
eyes that flashed dangerously.
"I think I have paid my debt to the McKayes," she declared, and in her
calm voice there was a sibilant little note of passion. "Indeed, I
have a slight credit-balance due me, and though Mrs. McKaye and her
daughters cannot bring themselves to the point of acknowledging this
indebtedness, I must insist upon collecting it. In view of the justice
of my claim, however, I cannot stultify my womanhood by permitting the
McKaye women to think they can dismiss the obligation by writing a
check. I am not an abandoned woman, Mr. Daney. I have sensibilities
and, strange to relate, I, too, have pride--more than the McKayes I
think sometimes. It is possible to insult me, to hurt me, and cause me
to suffer cruelty, and I tell you, Mr. Daney, I would rather lie down
and die by the roadside than accept one penny of McKaye money."
Mr. Daney stared at her, visibly distressed.
"Why, what's happened?" he blurted.
She ignored him.
"I repeat that The Laird owes me nothing--not even his thanks. I met
him one night with Mrs. McKaye on the hospital steps, and he tendered
me his meed of gratitude like the splendid gentleman he is."
"Oh, I see!" A great light had suddenly dawned on Mr. Daney. "The
Laird led trumps, but Nellie McKaye revoked and played a little
deuce?"
"Well, Mr. Daney, it seemed to me she fumbled the ball, to employ a
sporting metaphor. She bowed to me--like this--and smiled at me--like
that!" Her cool, patronizing nod and the sudden contraction and
relaxation of Nan's facial muscles brought a wry smile to old Daney's
stolid countenance. "Even if I felt that I could afford to or was
forced to accept reimbursement for my expenses and lost time," Nan
resumed, "her action precluded it. Can't you realize that, Mr. Daney?
And Jane and Elizabeth went her one--no, two--better. I'm going to
tell you about it. I went up-town the other day to send a telegram,
and in the telegraph-office I met Donald's sisters. I knew they would
not care to have me speak to them in public, so, when the telegrapher
wasn't looking at me and intuition told me that Elizabeth and Jane
were, I glanced up and favored them with a very small but very polite
smile of recognition."
"And then," quoted Mr. Daney, reaching into his ragbag of a mind and
bringing up a remnant of Shakespeare, "'there came a frost--a killing
frost!'"
"Two hundred and forty-five degrees below zero, and not even a stick
of kindling in the wood-box," she assured him humorously. "They looked
at me, through me, over me, beyond me--"
"And never batted an eye?"
"Not even the flicker of an eyelash."
His canine loyalty bade Mr. Daney defend The Laird's ewe lambs.
"Well, maybe they didn't recognize you," he protested. "A good deal of
water has run under a number of bridges since the McKaye girls saw you
last."
"In that event, Mr. Daney, I charge that their manners would have been
extremely bad. I know town dogs that smile at me when I smile at them.
However, much as I would like to assure you that they didn't know me,
I must insist, Mr. Daney, that they did."
"Well, now, how do you know, Nan?"
"A little devil took possession of me, Mr. Daney, and inspired me to
smoke them out. I walked up and held out my hand to Jane. 'How do you
do, Jane,' I said. 'I'm Nan Brent. Have you forgotten me?'"
Mr. Daney raised both arms toward the ceiling.
"'Oh, God! cried the woodcock,--and away he flew!' What did the chit
say?"
"She said, 'Why, not at all,' and turned her back on me. I then
proffered Elizabeth a similar greeting and said, 'Surely, Elizabeth,
_you_ haven't forgotten me!' Elizabeth is really funny. She replied:
'So sorry! I've always been absent-minded!' She looked at me steadily
with such a cool mirth in her eyes--she has nice eyes, too--and I must
have had mirth in mine, also, because I remember that at precisely
that minute I thought up a perfectly wonderful joke on Elizabeth and
Jane and their mother. Of course, the poor Laird will not see the
point of the joke, but then he's the innocent bystander, and innocent
bystanders are always, getting hurt."
"Ah, do not hurt him!" Daney pleaded anxiously. "He's a good, kind,
manly gentleman. Spare him! Spare him, my dear!"
"Oh, I wouldn't hurt him, Mr. Daney, if I did not know I had the power
to heal his hurts."
Suddenly she commenced to laugh, albeit there was in her laugh a
quality which almost caused Mr. Daney to imagine that he had hackles
on his back and that they were rising. He much preferred the note of
anger of a few minutes previous; with a rush all of his old
apprehensions returned, and he rasped out at her irritably:
"Well, well! What's this joke, anyhow? Tell me and perhaps I may
laugh, too."
"Oh, no, Mr. Daney, you'd never laugh at this one. You'd weep."
"Try me."
"Very well. You will recall, Mr. Daney, that when Mrs. McKaye rang me
up in New York, she was careful, even while asking me to return, to
let me know my place?"
"Yes, yes. I was listening on the line. I heard her, and I thought
she was a bit raw. But no matter. Proceed."
"Well, since she asked me to return to Port Agnew, I'm wondering who
is going to ask me to go away again?"
"I'll be shot if I will! Ha! Ha! Ha!" And Mr. Daney threw back his
head and laughed the most enjoyable laugh he had known since the night
an itinerant hypnotist, entertaining the citizens of Port Agnew, had
requested any adventurous gentleman in the audience who thought he
couldn't be hypnotized, to walk up and prove it. Dirty Dan O'Leary had
volunteered, had been mesmerized after a struggle, and, upon being
told that he was Dick Whittington's cat, had proceeded to cut some
feline capers that would have tickled the sensibilities of a
totem-pole. Mr. Daney's honest cachinnations now were so infectious
that Nan commenced to laugh with him--heartily, but no longer with
that strident little note of resentment, and cumulatively, as Mr.
Daney's mirth mounted until the honest fellow's tears cascaded across
his ruddy cheeks.
"Egad, Nan," he declared presently, "but you have a rare sense of
humor! Yes, do it. Do it! Make 'em all come down--right here to the
Sawdust Pile! Make 'em remember you--all three of 'em--make 'em say
please! Yes, sir! 'Please Nan, forgive me for forgetting. Please Nan,
forgive me for smiling like the head of an old fiddle. Please, Nan,
get out of Port Agnew, so we can sleep nights. Please, Nan, be careful
not to say "Good-by." Please, Nan, knock out a couple of your front
teeth and wear a black wig and a sunbonnet, so nobody'll recognize you
when you leave, follow you, and learn your address.'" He paused to
wipe his eyes. "Why, dog my cats, girl, you've got 'em where the hair
is short; so make 'em toe the scratch!"
"Well, of course," Nan reminded him, "they are not likely to toe the
scratch unless they receive a hint that toeing scratches is going to
be fashionable in our best Port Agnew circles this winter."
Mr. Daney arched his wild eyebrows, pursed his lips, popped his eyes,
and looked at Nan over the rims of his spectacles.
"Very well, my dear girl, I'll be the goat. A lesson in humility will
not be wasted on certain parties. But suppose they object? Suppose
they buck and pitch and sidestep and bawl and carry on? What then?"
"Why," Nan replied innocently, regarding him in friendly fashion with
those wistful blue eyes, "you might hint that I'm liable to go to The
Laird and tell him I regard him as a very poor sport, indeed, to
expect me to give up his son, in view of the fact that his son's
mother sent for me to save that son's life. Do you know, dear Mr.
Daney, I suspect that if The Laird knew his wife had compromised him
so, he would be a singularly wild Scot!"
"Onward, Christian soldier, marching as to war!" cried Mr. Daney, and,
seizing his hat from the table, he fled into the night.