Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XVII

  When Donald returned to The Dreamerie about eleven o'clock, he wasagreeably surprised to find his father in the living-room.

  "Hello, dad!" he greeted The Laird cheerfully. "Glad to see you. Whendid you get back?"

  "Came down on the morning train, Donald."

  They were shaking hands now. The Laird motioned him to a chair, andasked abruptly.

  "Where have you been all day, son?"

  "Well, I represented the clan at church this morning, and, afterluncheon here, I went down to visit the Brents at the Sawdust Pile.Stayed for dinner. Old Caleb's in rather bad shape mentally andphysically, and I tried to cheer him up. Nan sang for me--quite likeold times."

  "I saw Nan Brent on the beach the other day. Quite a remarkable youngwoman. Attractive, I should say," the old man answered craftily.

  "It's a pity, dad. She's every inch a woman. Hard on a girl withbrains and character to find herself in such a sorry tangle."

  The Laird's heavy heart was somewhat lightened by the frankness andlack of suspicion with which his son had met his blunt query as towhere he had been spending his time. For the space of a minute, heappeared to be devoting his thoughts to a consideration of Donald'slast remark; presently he sighed, faced his son, and took the plunge.

  "Have you heard anything about a fight down near the Sawdust Pilelast night, my son?" he demanded.

  His son's eyes opened with interest and astonishment.

  "No; I did not, dad. And I was there until nearly ten o'clock."

  "Yes; I was aware of that, and of your visit there to-day and thisevening. Thank God, you're frank with me! That yellow scoundrel andtwo Greeks followed you there to do for you. After you roughed theGreek at the railroad station, it occurred to me that you had an enemyand might hold him cheaply; so, just before I boarded the train, Itelephoned Daney to tell Dirty Dan to shadow you and guard you. Sowell did he follow orders that he lies in the company hospital now atthe point of death. As near as I can make out the affair, Dirty Daninculcated in those bushwhackers the idea that he was the man theywere after; he went to meet them and took the fight off your hands."

  "Good old Dirty Dan! I'll wager a stiff sum he did a thorough job."The young laird of Tyee rose and ruffled his father's gray headaffectionately. "Thoughtful, canny old fox!" he continued. "I swearI'm all puffed up with conceit when I consider the kind of father Iselected for myself."

  "Those scoundrels would have killed you," old Hector reminded him,with just a trace of emotion in his voice. "And if they'd done that,sonny, your old father'd never held up his head again. There are twothings I could not stand up under--your death and"--he sighed, as ifwhat he was about to say hurt him cruelly--"the wrong kind of adaughter-in-law."

  "We will not fence with each other," his son answered soberly. "Therehas never been a lack of confidence between us, and I shall notwithhold anything from you. You are referring to Nan, are you not?'"

  "I am, my son."

  "Well?"

  "I am not a cat, and it hurts me to be an old dog, but--I saw NanBrent recently, and we had a bit of talk together. She's a bonny lass,Donald, and I'm thinking 'twould be better for your peace of mind--andthe peace of mind of all of us--if you saw less of her."

  "You think, then, father, that I'm playing with fire."

  "You're sitting on an open barrel of gunpowder with a lighted torch inyour hand."

  Donald returned to his chair and faced his father.

  "Let us suppose," he suggested, "that the present unhappy situation inwhich Nan finds herself did not exist. Would you still prefer that Ilimit my visits to, say, Christmas and Easter?"

  The Laird scratched the back of his head in perplexity.

  "I'm inclined to think I wouldn't," he replied. "I'd consider yourbest interests always. If you married a fine girl from Chicago or NewYork, she might not be content to dwell with you in Port Agnew."

  "Then Nan's poverty--the lowliness of her social position, even inPort Agnew, would not constitute a serious bar?"

  "I was as poor as Job's turkey once myself--and your mother's peoplewere poorer. But we came of good blood."

  "Well, Nan's mother was a gentlewoman; her grandfather was anadmiral; her great-grandfather a commodore, her great-great-grandunclea Revolutionary colonel, and her grandmother an F.F.V. Old Caleb'sancestors always followed the sea. His father and his grandfather weresturdy old Yankee shipmasters. He holds the Congressional medal ofhonor for conspicuous gallantry in action over and above the call ofduty. The Brent blood may not be good enough for some, but it's a kindthat's good enough for me!"

  "All that is quite beside the question, Donald. The fact remains thatNan Brent loves you."

  "May I inquire on what grounds you base that statement, dad?"

  "On Saturday night, when you held her in your arms at parting, shekissed you." Donald was startled, and his features gave indubitableindication of the fact. His father's cool gray eyes were bent upon himkindly but unflinchingly. "Of course," he continued, in even tones,"you would not have accepted that caress were you not head over heelsin love with the girl. You are not low enough to seek her favor foranother reason."

  "Yes; I love her," Donald maintained manfully. "I have loved her foryears--since I was a boy of sixteen,--only, I didn't realize it untilmy return to Port Agnew. I can't very well help loving Nan, can I,dad?"

  To his amazement, his father smiled at him sympathetically.

  "No; I do not see how you could very well help yourself, son," hereplied. "She's an extraordinary young woman. After my brief andaccidental interview with her recently, I made up my mind that therewould be something radically wrong with you if you didn't fall inlove with her."

  His son grinned back at him.

  "Proceed, old lumberjack!" he begged. "Your candor is soothing to mybruised spirit."

  "No; you cannot help loving her, I suppose. Since you admit being inlove with her, the fact admits of no argument. It has happened, and Ido not condemn you for it. Both of you have merely demonstrated in thenatural, human way that you are natural human beings. And I'm gratefulto Nan for loving you. I think I should have resented her not doingso, for it would demonstrate her total lack of taste and appreciationof my son. She informed me, in so many words, that she wouldn't marryyou."

  "Nan has the capacity, somewhat rare in a woman, of keeping her owncounsel. That is news to me, dad. However, if you had waited about twominutes, I would have informed you that I do not intend to marryNan--" He paused for an infinitesimal space and added, "yet."

  The Laird elevated his eyebrows.

  "'Yet?'" he repeated.

  Donald flushed a little as he reiterated his statement with anemphatic nod.

  "Why that reservation, my son?"

  "Because, some day, Nan may be in position to prove herself that whichI know her to be--a virtuous woman--and when that time comes, I'llmarry her in spite of hell and high water."

  Old Hector sighed. He was quite familiar with the fact that, while therecords of the county clerk of Santa Clara County, California,indicated that a marriage license had been issued on a certain dateto a certain man and one Nan Brent, of Port Agnew, Washington, therewas no official record of a marriage between the two. The Reverend Mr.Tingley's wife had sorrowfully imparted that information to Mrs.McKaye, who had, in turn, informed old Hector, who had received thenews with casual interest, little dreaming that he would ever havecause to remember it in later years. And The Laird was an old man,worldly-wise and of mature judgment. His soul wore the scars of humanperfidy, and, because he could understand the weakness of the flesh,he had little confidence in its strength. Consequently, he dismissednow, with a wave of his hand, consideration of the possibility thatNan Brent would ever make a fitting mate for his son.

  "It's nice of you to believe that, Donald. I would not destroy yourfaith in human nature, for human nature will destroy your faith intime, as it has destroyed mine. I'm afraid I'm a sort of doubtingThomas. I must see in order to believe; I must thrust m
y finger intothe wound. I wonder if you realize that, even if this poor girlshould, at some future time, be enabled to demonstrate her innocenceof illicit love, she has been hopelessly smeared and will never,never, be quite able to clean herself."

  "It matters not if _I_ know she's a good woman. That is allsufficient. To hell with what the world thinks! I'm going to take myhappiness where I find it."

  "It may be a long wait, my son."

  "I will be patient, sir."

  "And, in the meantime, I shall be a doddering old man, without agrandson to sweeten the afternoon of my life, without a hope forseeing perpetuated all those things that I have considered worthwhile because I created them. Ah, Donald, lad, I'm afraid you're goingto be cruel to your old father!"

  "I have suffered with the thought that I might appear to be, dad. Ihave considered every phase of the situation; I was certain of theattitude you would take, and I feel no resentment because you havetaken it. Neither Nan nor I had contemplated the condition whichconfronts us. It happened--like that," and Donald snapped his fingers."Now the knowledge of what we mean to each other makes the obstaclesall the more heart-breaking. I have tried to wish, for your sake, thatI hadn't spoken--that I had controlled myself, but, for someunfathomable reason, I cannot seem to work up a very healthycontrition. And I think, dad, this is going to cause me more sufferingthan it will you."

  A faint smile flitted across old Hector's stern face. Youth! Youth! Italways thinks it knows!

  "This affair is beyond consideration by the McKayes, Donald. It isutterly impossible! You must cease calling on the girl."

  "Why, father?"

  "To give you my real reason would lead to endless argument in whichyou would oppose me with more or less sophistry that would bedifficult to combat. In the end, we might lose our tempers. Let ussay, therefore, that you must cease calling on the lass because Idesire it."

  "I'll never admit that I'm ashamed of her, for I am not!" his sonburst forth passionately.

  "But people are watching you now--talking about you. Man, do ye notken you're your father's son?" A faint note of passion had crept intoThe Laird's tones; under the stress of it, his faint Scotch brogueincreased perceptibly. He had tried gentle argument, and he knew hehad failed; in his desperation, he decided to invoke his authority asthe head of his clan. "I forbid you!" he cried firmly, and slapped thehuge leather arm of his chair. "I charge you, by the blood that's inyou, not to bring disgrace upon my house!"

  A slight mistiness which Donald, with swelling heart, had noted in hisfather's eyes a few moments before was now gone. They flashed likenaked claymores in the glance that Andrew Daney once had so aptlydescribed to his wife.

  For the space of ten seconds, father and son looked into each other'ssoul and therein each read the other's answer. There could be nosurrender.

  "You have bred a man, sir, not a mollycoddle," said the young lairdquietly. "I think we understand each other." He rose, drew the old manout of his chair, and threw a great arm across the latter's shoulders."Good-night, sir," he murmured humbly, and squeezed the old shouldersa little.

  The Laird bowed his head but did not answer. He dared not trusthimself to do so. Thus Donald left him, standing in the middle of theroom, with bowed head a trifle to one side, as if old Hector listenedfor advice from some unseen presence. The Laird of Tyee had thought hehad long since plumbed the heights and depths of the joys and sorrowsof fatherhood. The tears came presently.

  A streak of moonlight filtered into the room as the moon sank in thesea and augmented the silver in a head that rested on two claspedhands, while Hector McKaye, kneeling beside his chair, prayed to hisstern Presbyterian God once more to save his son from the folly of hislove.