Returning to the mill office, Mr. Daney sat at his desk and started to
look over the mail. The Laird heard his desk buzzer sounding
frequently and rightly conjecturing that his general manager was back
on the job, he came into the latter's office and glared at him.
"I thought I fired you?" he growled.
"I know. You thought you did," the rebel replied complacently. "I see
by your knuckles you've been fighting. Hope it did you good."
"It did. Are you going to leave this office?"
"No, sir."
"I didn't think you would. Well, well! Out with it."
Mr. Daney drew a deal of pleasure from that invitation. "The boy
directs me to inform you, sir, that he will not accept the bonds nor
any monies you may desire to give him. He says he doesn't need them
because he isn't going to leave Port Agnew."
"Nonsense, Andrew. He cannot remain in this town. He hasn't the
courage to face his little world after marrying that girl. And he has
to make a living for her."
"We shall see that which we shall see," Mr. Daney replied
enigmatically.
"I wonder if it is possible he is trying to outgame me," old Hector
mused aloud. "Andrew, go back and tell him that if he will go to
California to live I will deed him that Lassen county sugar and white
pine and build him the finest mill in the state."
"The terms are quite impossible," Daney retorted and explained why.
"He shall get out of Port Agnew," The Laird threatened. "He shall get
out or starve."
"You are forgetting something, sir."
"Forgetting what?"
"That I have more than a hundred thousand dollars in bonds right in
that vault and that I have not as yet developed paralysis of the right
hand. The boy shall not starve and neither shall he crawl, like a
beaten dog currying favor with the one that has struck him."
"I am the one who has been struck--and he has wounded me sorely," The
Laird cried, his voice cracked with anger.
"The mischief is done. What's the use of crying over spilled milk?
You're going to forgive the boy sooner or later, so do it now and be
graceful about it."
"I'll never forgive him, Andrew."
Mr. Daney walled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Thank God," he murmured
piously, "I'm pure. Hereafter, every time Reverend Mr. Tingley says
the Lord's prayer I'm going to cough out loud in church at the line:
'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against
us.' You'll hear that cough and remember, Hector McKaye."
A deeper shadow of distress settled over The Laird's stern features.
"You're uncommon mean to me this bitter day, Andrew," he complained
wearily. "I take it as most unkind of you to thwart my wishes like
this."
"I'm for true love!" Mr. Daney declared firmly. "Ah come, come now!
Don't be a stiff-necked old dodo. Forgive the boy."
"In time I may forgive him, Andrew. I'm not sure of myself where he is
concerned, but we canna receive the girl. 'Tis not in reason that we
should."
"I believe I'll cough twice," Daney murmured musingly.
And the following day being Sunday, he did! He sat two rows behind the
McKaye family pew but across the aisle, and in a cold fury The Laird
turned to squelch him with a look. What he saw in the Daney pew,
however, chilled his fury and threw him into a veritable panic of
embarrassment. For to the right of the incomprehensible general
manager sat the young ex-laird of Port Agnew; at Daney's left the old
Laird beheld his new daughter-in-law, while further down the pew as
far as she could retreat, Mrs. Daney, with face aflame, sat rigid, her
bovine countenance upraised and her somewhat vacuous glance fixed
unblinkingly at a point some forty feet over Mr. Tingley's pious head.
Donald intercepted the old man's amazed and troubled glance, and
smiled at his father with his eyes--an affectionate overture that was
not lost on The Laird ere he jerked his head and eyes once more to the
front.
Mrs. McKaye and her two daughters were as yet unaware of the horror
that impended. But not for long. When the congregation stood to sing
the final hymn, Nan's wondrous mezzo-soprano rose clear and sweet over
the indifferent-toned notes of every other woman present; to the most
dull it would have been obvious that there was a trained singer
present, and Mrs. McKaye and her daughters each cast a covert glance
in the direction of the voice. However, since every other woman in the
church was gazing at Nan, nobody observed the effect of her presence
upon the senior branch of the McKaye family, for which small blessing
the family in question was duly grateful.
At the conclusion of the service old Hector remained in his pew until
the majority of the congregation had filed out; then, assuring himself
by a quick glance, that his son and the latter's wife had preceded
him, he followed with Mrs. McKaye and the girls. From the church steps
he observed Donald and Nan walking home, while Mr. Daney and his
outraged spouse followed some twenty feet behind them. Quickly The
Laird and his family entered the waiting limousine; it was the first
occasion that anybody could remember when he had not lingered to shake
hands with Mr. Tingley and, perchance, congratulate him on the
excellence of his sermon.
They were half way up the cliff road before anybody spoke. Then, with
a long preliminary sigh, The Laird voiced the thought that obsessed
them all.
"That damned mutton-head, Daney. I'd run him out of the Tyee employ if
it would do a bit of good. I cannot run him out of town or out of
church."
"The imbecile!" Elizabeth raged. Jane was dumb with shame and rage and
Mrs. McKaye was sniffling a little. Presently she said:
"How dare he bring her right into church with him," she cried
brokenly. "Right before everybody. Oh, dear, oh dear, is my son
totally lacking in a sense of decency? This is terrible, terrible."
"I shall not risk such another awful Sunday morning," Elizabeth
announced.
"Nor I," Jane cried with equal fervor.
"We shall have to leave Port Agnew now," Mrs, McKaye sobbed.
Old Hector patted her hand. "Yes, I think you'll have to, Nellie.
Unfortunately, I cannot go with you. Daney doesn't appear to be quite
sane of late and with Donald out of the business I'm chained to a desk
for the remainder of my life. I fear, however," he added savagely, "I
do not intend to let that woman run me out of my own church. Not by a
damned sight!"
The instant they entered the house, rightly conjecturing that the
Daneys had also reached their home, Mrs. McKaye went to the telephone
and proceeded to inform Mr. Daney of the opinion which the McKaye
family, jointly and severally, entertained for his idea of comedy.
Daney listened respectfully to all she had to say touching his sanity,
his intelligence, his sense of decency, and his loyalty to Hector and
when, stung because he made no defense, she asked: "Have you no
explanation to make us for your extraordinary behavior?" he replied:
"I am an usher of our church, Mrs. McKaye. When Donald and his wife
entered the church the only vacant seats in it were in my pew; the
only person in the church who would not have felt a sense of outrage
at having your daughter-in-law seated with his or her family, was my
self-sacrificing self. I could not be discourteous to Donald and I'm
quite certain his wife has as much right in our church as you have. So
I shooed them both up to my pew, to the great distress of Mrs. Daney."
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Andrew. You should!"
"I'm not ashamed of myself, Mrs. McKaye. I've been a pussy-foot all
my life. I had to do something I knew would detract from my
popularity, but since I had to do it I decided to do it promptly and
as if I enjoyed it. Surely you would not have commended me had I met
the young couple at the door and said to them: 'Get out of this
church. It is not for such as you. However, if you insist upon
staying, you'll have to stand up or else sit down on the floor. Nobody
here wants to sit with you. They're afraid, too, they'll offend the
Chief Pooh-bah of this town'."
"You could have pretended you did not see them."
"My dear Mrs. McKaye," Daney retorted in even tones, "do you wish me
to inform your husband of a certain long distance telephone
conversation? If so--"
She hung up without waiting to say good-by, and the following day she
left for Seattle, accompanied by her daughters.
Throughout the week The Laird forbore mentioning his son's name to Mr.
Daney; indeed, he refrained from addressing the latter at all unless
absolutely necessary to speak to him directly--wherefore Daney knew
himself to be blacklisted. On the following Sunday The Laird sat alone
in the family pew and Mr. Daney did not cough during the recital of
the Lord's prayer, so old Hector managed to conquer a tremendous
yearning to glance around for the reason. Also, as on the previous
Sunday, he was in no hurry to leave his pew at the conclusion of the
service, yet, to his profound irritation, when he did leave it and
start down the central aisle of the church, he looked squarely into
the faces of Donald and Nan as they emerged from the Daney pew. Mrs.
Daney was conspicuous by her absence. Nan's baby boy had fallen asleep
during the service and Donald was carrying the cherub.
Old Hector's face went white; he gulped when his son spoke to him.
"Hello, Dad. You looked lonely all by yourself in that big pew.
Suppose we come up and sit with you next Sunday?"
Old Hector paused and bent upon his son and Nan a terrible look.
"Never speak to me again so long as you live," he replied in a low
voice, and passed out of the church.
Donald gazed after his broad erect figure and shook his head
dolefully, as Mr. Daney fell into step beside him. "I told you so," he
whispered.
"Isn't it awful to be Scotch?" Nan inquired.
"It is awful--on the Scotch," her husband assured her. "The dear old
fraud gulped like a broken-hearted boy when I spoke to him. He'd
rather be wrong than president."
As they were walking home to the Sawdust Pile, Nan captured one of her
husband's great fingers and swung it childishly. "I wish you didn't
insist upon our going to church, sweetheart," she complained. "We're
spoiling your father's Christianity."
"Can't help it," he replied doggedly. "We're going to be thoroughbreds
about this, no matter how much it hurts."