After leaving the Sawdust Pile, Mr. Daney walked twice around the
Bight of Tyee before arriving at a definite decision as to his future
conduct in this intrigue, participation in which had been thrust upon
him by his own loyalty to his employer and the idiocy of three
hare-brained women. Time and again as lie paced the lonely strand, Mr.
Daney made audible reference to the bells of the nether regions and
the presence of panther tracks! This was his most terrible oath and
was never employed except under exceptional circumstances.
At length Mr. Daney arrived at a decision. He would have nothing
further to do with this horrible love affair. In the role of Dan
Cupid's murderer he was apparently a Tumble Tom; for three months he
had felt as if he trod thin ice--and now he had fallen through! "I'll
carry no more of their messages," he declared aloud. "I'll tell them
so and wash my hands of the entire matter. If there is to be any
asking of favors from that girl the McKaye women can do it."
It was after midnight when he returned to his home and his wife was
sitting up to receive an explanation of his nocturnal prowlings.
However, the look of desperation with which he met her accusing glance
frightened her into silence, albeit she had a quiet little crying
spell next morning when she discovered on the floor of Mr. Daney's
room quite a quantity of sand which had worked into his shoes during
his agitated spring around Tyee Beach. She was quite certain he had
indulged in a moonlight stroll on the seashore with a younger and
prettier woman, so she resolved to follow him when next he fared forth
and catch the traitor red-handed.
To her surprise, Mr. Daney went out no more o' nights. He had kept his
word given to himself, and on the morning succeeding his extraordinary
interview with Nan he had again summoned the ladies of the McKaye
family to his office for a conference. However, the capable Elizabeth
was the only one of the trio to present herself, for this young
woman--and not without reason--regarded herself as Mr. Daney's mental
superior; she was confident of her ability to retain his loyalty
should he display a tendency to betray them.
"Well, dear Mr. Daney," she murmured in her melted-butter voice, "what
new bugaboo have you developed for us?"
"You do not have to bother calling upon the Brent girl, Miss
Elizabeth. She says now that if Donald asks her to marry him she'll
accept. She has an idea she'll be mistress of The Dreamerie."
Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. "What else?" she queried amiably.
"That's all--from Nan Brent. I have a small defi to make on my own
account, however, Miss Elizabeth. From this minute on I wash my hands
of the private affairs of the McKaye family. My job is managing your
father's financial affairs. Believe me, the next move in this
comedy-drama is a wedding--if Donald asks her in all seriousness to
marry him--that is, if he insists on it. He may insist and then again
he may not, but if he should, I shall not attempt to stop him. He's
free, white and twenty-one; he's my boss and I hope I know my place.
Personally, I'm willing to wager considerable that he'll marry her,
but whether he does or not--I'm through."
Elizabeth McKaye sighed. "That means we must work fast, Mr. Daney.
Donald will be feeling strong: enough within two weeks to call on her;
he may even motor down to the Sawdust Pile within ten days. Mother has
already broached the subject of taking him away to southern California
or Florida for a long rest; Dad has seconded the motion with great
enthusiasm--and that stubborn Donald has told them frankly that he
isn't going away for a rest."
"Gosh!" Mr. Daney gasped. "That makes it a little binding, eh?"
She met his clear glance thoughtfully and said: "If her house should
burn down--accidentally--to-day or to-night, when she and her baby
aren't in it, she'll have to leave Port Agnew. There isn't a house in
town where she could find shelter, and you could see to it that all
the rooms in the hotel are taken."
"You forget, my dear," he replied with a small smile. "I have no
further interest in this affair and moreover, I'm not turning
firebug--not this year."
"You refuse to help us?"
"Absolutely. What is to be will be, and I, for one, have decided not
to poke my finger into the cogs of destiny."
"Well--thanks awfully for what you've already done, Mr. Daney." Again
she smiled her bright, impish smile. "Good-morning."
"Good-morning, Miss Elizabeth."
As she left the office, Mr. Daney noted her débutante slouch and
gritted his teeth. "Wonder if they'll call on Nan now, or make a
combined attack on the boy and try bluff and threats and tears," he
soliloquized.
As a matter of fact they tried the latter. The storm broke after
luncheon one day when Donald declared he felt strong enough to go down
to Port Agnew, and, in the presence of the entire family, ordered the
butler to tell his father's chauffeur to bring the closed car around
to the door. Immediately, the astute Elizabeth precipitated matters by
asking her brother sharply if his projected visit to Port Agnew
predicated also a visit to the Sawdust Pile.
"Why, yes, Elizabeth," he answered calmly.
The Laird scowled at her, but she ignored the scowl; so old Hector
flashed a warning glance to Jane and her mother--a glance that said
quite plainly: "Let there be no upbraiding of my son."
"Do you think it is quite--ah, delicate of you, Donald, to call upon
any young lady at her apartments in the absence of a proper chaperon,
even if the lady herself appears to have singularly free and easy
views on the propriety of receiving you thus?"
He saw that she was bound to force the issue and was rather relieved
than otherwise. With a mental promise to himself to keep his temper at
all hazards he replied: "Well, Elizabeth, I'll admit the situation is
a trifle awkward, but what cannot be cured must be endured. You see, I
want to have a talk with Nan Brent and I cannot do so unless I call
upon her at the Sawdust Pile. It is impossible for us to meet on
neutral ground, I fear. However, if you will write her a nice
friendly little note and invite her up here to visit me, the question
of a chaperon will be solved and I will postpone my visit until she
gets here."
"Don't be a fool," she retorted bitterly.
"As for Nan's free and easy views on the subjects, who in Port Agnew,
may I ask, expects her to act differently? Why, therefore, since she
is fully convinced that I possess a few of the outward appearances of
a gentleman, should she fear to receive me in her home? To conform to
the social standards of those who decry her virtue? Elizabeth, you
expect too much, I fear."
"Hear, hear," cried The Laird. He realized that Elizabeth was not to
be denied, so he thought best to assume a jocular attitude during the
discussion.
"Father," his eldest daughter reminded him. "It is your duty to forbid
Donald doing anything which is certain to bring his family into
disrepute and make it the target for the tongue of scandal."
"Oh, leave him alone, you pestiferous woman," old Hector cried
sharply. "Had it not been for the girl he would not be living this
minute, so the least he can do is to express his compliments to her.
Also, since this disagreeable topic has again been aired, let me
remind you that the lass isn't going to marry Donald. She came out
here, Donald," he continued, turning to his son, "with the distinct
understanding that her job was to humor you back to health, and for
that you owe her your thanks and I'm willing you should call on her
and express them. Don't flattter yourself that she'll marry you, my
boy. I've had a talk with her--since you must know it, sooner or
later--and she promised me she wouldn't."
The young Laird's face paled a little but he maintained his
composure. "I greatly fear you misunderstood her, father," he replied
gently. "She promised me she'd marry me. You see," he added looking
the old man resolutely in the face, "I think she's virtuous, so I'm
going to marry her."
His father smiled sadly. "Poor lad. God knows I'm sorry for you,
but--well, go see her and let's have the issue settled once for all.
For God's sake, lad, grant me peace of mind. End it to-day, one way or
the other."
"Ah, yes, you're brave," Elizabeth flung at her father. "You're so
certain that girl will keep her promise, aren't you? Well, I happen to
have been informed, on very good authority, that she intends to betray
you. She had made the statement that she'll marry Donald if he asks
her--again."
"The girl doesn't impress me as one who would lie, Elizabeth. Who told
you this?"
"Andrew Daney."
"Bear with me a moment, son, till I call Andrew on the telephone," the
Laird requested, and went into the telephone booth under the stairs in
the reception hall. When he emerged a few minutes later his face was
pale and haggard.
"Well? What did I tell you?" Elizabeth's voice was triumphant.
Her father ignored her. Placing himself squarely before his son, he
bent forward slightly and thrust his aggressive face close to
Donald's. "I command you to respect the honor of my house," he cried
furiously. "For the last time, Donald McKaye, ha' done wie this woman,
or--" and his great arm was outflung in a swooping gesture that
denoted all too forcibly the terrible sentence he shrank from
speaking.
"Are you offering me an alternative?" Donald's voice was low and very
calm, but his brown eyes were blazing with suppressed rage. "The
Dreamerie or--" and he swung and pointed to the Brent cottage far
below them on the Sawdust Pile.
"Aye," his father cried in a hard cracked voice. "Aye!"
Donald looked over at his mother with the helplessness of a child who
has fallen and hurt himself. "And you, mother? What do you say to
this?"
She thought she would faint. "You--you must obey your father," she
quavered. Until her son should marry Nan Brent she could not force
herself to the belief that he could possibly commit such an incredible
offense.
"The opinions of you and Jane," Donald continued, turning to each
sister in turn, "do not interest me particularly, but while the polls
are open you might as well vote. If I marry Nan Brent are you each
prepared to forget that I am your brother?"
Elizabeth nodded calmly. She had gone too far now to develop weakness
when an assumption of invincible strength might yet win the day.
"I couldn't receive such a peculiar sister-in-law," Jane murmured,
evidently close to tears. "Surely, you would not expect us to take
such a woman to our hearts, Donald dear?"
"I did not build The Dreamerie for yon lass," The Laird burst forth
passionately.
His son stood with bowed head. "Have you, mother, or you, my sisters,
been down to the Sawdust Pile to thank Nan for inspiring me--no
matter how--with a desire to live? I think you realize that until she
came I was too unhappy--too disgusted with life--to care whether I got
well or not? Have you absolved yourselves of an obligation which must
be perfectly evident to perfect ladies?"
"We have not." Elizabeth's calm voice answered him. "What the girl did
was entirely of her own volition. She did it for your sake, and since
it is apparent that she plans to collect the reward of her
disinterested effort we have considered that a formal expression of
thanks would be superfluous."
"I see. I see. Well, perhaps you're right. I shall not quarrel with
your point of view. And you're all quite certain you will never recede
from your attitude of hostility toward Nan--under no circumstances, to
recognize her as my wife and extend to her the hospitality of The
Dreamerie?"
He challenged his father with a look and the old man slowly nodded an
affirmative. His mother thought Donald was about to yield to their
opposition and nodded likewise. "I have already answered that
question," Jane murmured tragically, and Elizabeth again reminded him
that it was not necessary for him to make a fool of himself.
"Well, I'm glad this affair has been ironed out--at last," Donald
assured them. "I had cherished the hope that when you knew Nan
better--" He choked up for a moment, then laid his hands on his
father's shoulders. "Well, sir," he gulped, "I'm going down to the
Sawdust Pile and thank Nan for saving my life. Not," he added
bitterly, "that I anticipate enjoying that life to the fullest for
some years to come. If I did not believe that time will solve the
problem--"
The Laird's heart leaped. "Tush, tush, boy. Run along and don't do
anything foolish." He slapped Donald heartily across the back while
the decisive sweep of that same hand an instant later informed the
women of his household that it would be unnecessary to discuss this
painful matter further.
"I understand just how you feel, dad. I hold no resentment," Donald
assured him, and dragged The Laird close to him in a filial embrace.
He crossed the room and kissed his mother, who clung to him a moment,
tearfully; seeing him so submissive, Jane and Elizabeth each came up
and claimed the right to embrace him with sisterly affection.
The butler entered to announce that the car was waiting at the front
door. Old Hector helped his son into a great coat and Mrs. McKaye
wound a reefer around his neck and tucked the ends inside the coat.
Then The Laird helped him into the car; as it rolled slowly down the
cliff road, Old Hector snorted with relief.
"By Judas," he declared, "I never dreamed the boy would accept such an
ultimatum."
"Well, the way to find out is to try," Elizabeth suggested. "Sorry to
have been forced to disregard that optical S.O.S. of yours, Dad, but I
realized that we had to strike now or never."
"Whew-w-w!" The Laird whistled again.