Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XL

  With the license of long familiarity, Donald knocked at the front doorof the Brent cottage to announce his arrival; then, without awaitingpermission to enter, he opened the door and met Nan in the tiny hallhurrying to admit him.

  "You--Donald!" she reproved him. "What are you doing here? Youshouldn't be out."

  "That's why I came in," he retorted drily and kissed her. "And I'mhere because I couldn't stand The Dreamerie another instant. I wantedmy mother and sisters to call on you and thank you for having been sonice to me during my illness, but the idea wasn't received, veryenthusiastically. So, for the sheer sake of doing the decent thingI've called myself. It might please you," he added, "to know that myfather thought I should."

  "He is always tactful and kind," she agreed.

  She led him to her father's old easy chair in the living room.

  "As Dirty Dan O'Leary once remarked in my presence," he began, "it isa long lane that hasn't got a saloon at the end of it. I will firstlight a cigarette, if I may, and make myself comfortable, beforeputting you on the witness stand and subjecting you to a severecross-examination. Seat yourself on that little hassock before me andin such a position that I can look squarely into your face and noteflush of guilt when you fib to me."

  She obeyed, with some slight inward trepidation, and sat looking upat him demurely.

  "Nan," he began, "did anybody ever suggest to you that the sportything for you to do would be to run away and hide where I could neverfind you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Did anybody ever suggest to you that the sporty thing for you to dowould be to return to Port Agnew from your involuntary exile andinspire me with some enthusiasm for life?"

  His keen perception did not fail to interpret the slight flush ofembarrassment that suffused Nan's face. "I object to that question,your honor," she replied with cleverly simulated gaiety, "on theground that to do so would necessitate the violation of a confidence."

  "The objection is sustained by the court. Did my father or AndrewDaney, acting for him, ever offer you any sum of money as a bribe fordisappearing out of my life?"

  "No. Your father offered to be very, very kind to me the morning I wasleaving. We met at the railroad station and his offer was made _after_I informed him that I was leaving Port Agnew forever--and why. So Iknow he made the offer just because he wanted to be kind--because heis kind."

  "Neither he nor Daney communicated with you in anyway following yourdeparture from Port Agnew?"

  "They did not."

  "Before leaving New York or immediately after your return to PortAgnew, did you enter into verbal agreement with any member of myfamily or their representative to nurse me back to health and thenjilt me?"

  "I did not. The morning I appeared at the hospital your father,remembering my statement to him the morning I fled from Port Agnew,suspected that I had had a change of heart. He said to me: 'So this isyour idea of playing the game, is it?' I assured him then that I hadnot returned to Port Agnew with the intention of marrying you, butmerely to stiffen your morale, as it were. He seemed quite satisfiedwith my explanation, which I gave him in absolute good faith."

  "Did he ever question you as to how you ascertained I was ill?"

  "No. While I cannot explain my impression, I gathered at the time thathe knew."

  "He credited Andrew Daney with that philanthropic job, Nan. He doesnot know that my mother communicated with you."

  "Neither do you, Donald. I have not told you she did."

  "I am not such a stupid fellow as to believe you would ever tell meanything that might hurt me, Nan. One does not relish the informationthat one's mother has not exhibited the sort of delicacy one expectsof one's mother," he added bluntly.

  "It is not nice of you to say that, Donald. How do you know that Mr.Daney did not send for me?"

  He smiled tolerantly. "Before Daney would dare do that he wouldconsult with my father, and if my father had consented to it he wouldnever have left to Daney the task of requesting such a tremendousfavor of you for his account. If Daney ever consulted my father as tothe advisability of such a course, my father refused to consider it."

  "What makes you think so, old smarty?"

  "Well, I know my father's code. He had no hesitancy in permitting youto know that you were not welcome as a prospective daughter-in-law,although he was not so rude as to tell you why. He left that to yourimagination. Now, for my father to ask a favor of anybody is veryunusual. He has a motto that a favor accepted is a debt incurred, andhe dislikes those perennial debts. My father is a trader, my dear. Ifhe had, directly or indirectly, been responsible for your return toPort Agnew for the purpose of saving his son's life, he would notbe--well, he just wouldn't do it," he explained with someembarrassment. "He couldn't do it. He would say to you, 'My son isdying because he finds life uninteresting without you. If you return,your presence will stimulate in him a renewed interest in life and hewill, in all probability, survive. If you are good enough to save myson from death you are good enough to share his life, and althoughthis wedding is about going to kill me, nevertheless we will pull itoff and make believe we like it.'"

  "Nonsense," she retorted.

  "Knowing how my father would act under such circumstances, I wasdumfounded when he informed me this afternoon that you had agreed toperform under false pretenses. He was quite certain you would proceedto jilt me, now that I am strong enough to stand it. He said you hadpromised him you would."

  "I did not promise him. I merely told him truthfully what my firmintention was at the time he demanded to be informed as to the natureof my intentions. I reserved my woman's right to change my mind."

  "Oh!"

  "Had I made your father a definite promise I would have kept it. If Iwere a party to such a contract with your father, Donald dear, all ofyour pleading to induce me to break it would be in vain."

  "A contract without a consideration is void in law," he reminded her."Dad just figured he could bank on your love for me. He did you thehonor to think it was so strong and wonderful that death would be adelirious delight to you in preference to spoiling my career bymarrying me--well--Elizabeth disillusioned him!"

  Nan's eyebrows lifted perceptibly.

  "She informed my father in my presence," Donald continued, "that youhad had a change of heart; that you were now resolved to accept meshould I again ask you to marry me. It appears you had told AndrewDaney this--in cold blood as it were. So Dad went to the telephone andverified this report by Daney; then we had a grand show-down and I wasdefinitely given my choice of habitation--The Dreamerie or the SawdustPile. Father, Mother, Elizabeth and Jane; jointly and severallyassured me that they would never receive you, so Nan, dear, it appearsthat I will have to pay rather a heavy price for the privilege ofmarrying you--"

  "I have never told you I would marry you," she cried sharply.

  "Yes, you did. That day in the hospital."

  "That was a very necessary fib and you should not hold it against me.It was a promise absolutely not made in good faith."

  "But did you tell Daney that you would accept me if I should ask youagain to marry me?"

  She was visibly agitated but answered him truthfully. "Yes, I did."

  "You said it in anger?"

  "Yes." Very softly.

  "Daney had come to you with an offer of monetary reward for yourinvaluable services to the McKaye family, had he not? And since whatyou did was not done for profit, you were properly infuriated andcouldn't resist giving Daney the scare of his life? That was the wayof it, was it not?"

  Nan nodded and some tears that trembled on her long lashes wereflicked off by the vigor of the nod; some of them fell on the biggaunt hands that held hers.

  "I suppose you haven't sufficient money with which to return to NewYork?" he continued.

  Again she nodded an affirmative.

  "Just what are your plans, dear?"

  "I suppose I'll have to go somewhere and try to procure a position asa cook lady."

 
"An admirable decision," he declared enthusiastically. "I'll give youa job cooking for me, provided you'll agree to marry me and permit meto live in your house. I'm a man without a home and you've just _got_to take me in, Nan. I have no other place to lay my weary head."

  She looked at him and through the blur of her tears she saw himsmiling down at her, calmly, benignantly and with that little touch ofwhimsicality that was always in evidence and which even his heavyheart could not now subdue.

  "You've--you've--chosen the Sawdust Pile?" she cried incredulously.

  "How else would a man of spirit choose, old shipmate?"

  "But you're not marrying me to save me from poverty, Donald? You mustbe certain you aren't mistaking for love the sympathy which rises sonaturally in that big heart of yours. If it's only a great pity--ifit's only the protective instinct--"

  "Hush! It's all of that and then some. I'm a man grown beyond thepuppy-love stage, my dear--and the McKayes are not an impulsive race.We count the costs carefully and take careful note of the potentialprofits. And while I could grant my people the right to make hash ofmy happiness I must, for some inexplicable reason, deny them theprivilege of doing it with yours. I think I can make you happy, Nan;not so happy, perhaps, that the shadow of your sorrow will not fallacross your life occasionally, but so much happier than you are atpresent that the experiment seems worth trying, even at the expense ofsacrificing the worldly pride of my people."

  "Are you entertaining a strong hope that after you marry me, dear,your people will forgive you, make the best of what they consider abad bargain and acknowledge me after a fashion? Do you think they willlet bygones be bygones and take me to their hearts--for your sake?"

  "I entertain no such silly illusion. Under no circumstances will theyever acknowledge you after a fashion, for the very sufficient reasonthat the opportunity to be martyrs will never be accorded my motherand sisters by yours truly, Donald McKaye, late Laird apparent of PortAgnew. Bless, your sweet soul, Nan, I have some pride, you know. Iwouldn't permit them to tolerate you. I prefer open warfare everytime."

  "Have you broken with your people, dear?"

  "Yes, but they do not know it yet. I didn't have the heart to raise ascene, so I merely gave the old pater a hug, kissed mother and thegirls and came away. I'm not going back."

  "You will--if I refuse to marry you?"

  "I do not anticipate such a refusal. However, it Hoes not enter intothe matter at all in so far as my decision to quit The Dreamerie isconcerned. I'm through! Listen, Nan. I could win my father to you--winhim wholeheartedly and without reservation--if I should inform himthat my mother asked you to come back to Port Agnew. My mother and thegirls have not told him of this and I suspect they have encouraged hisassumption that Andrew Daney took matters in his own hands. Father hasnot cared to inquire into the matter, anyhow, because he is secretlygrateful to Daney (as he thinks) for disobeying him. Mother and thegirls are forcing Daney to protect them; they are using his loyalty tothe family as a club to keep him in line. With that club they forcedhim to come to you with a proposition that must have been repugnant tohim, if for no other reason than that he knew my father would notcountenance it. When you told him you would marry me if I should askyou again, to whom did Daney report? To Elizabeth, of course--thebrains of the opposition. That proves to me that my father had nothingto do with it--why the story is as easily understood from deduction asif I had heard the details from their lips. But I cannot use mymother's peace of mind as a club to beat dad into line; I cannot tellhim something that will almost make him hate mother and my sisters; Iwould not force him to do that which he does not desire to do becauseit is the kindly, sensible and humane course. So I shall sit tight andsay nothing--and by the way, I love you more than ever for keepingthis affair from me. So few women are true blue sports, I'm afraid."

  "You must be very, very angry and hurt, Donald?"

  "I am. So angry and hurt that I desire to be happy within the shortestpossible period of elapsed time. Now, old girl, look right into myeyes, because I'm going to propose to you for the last time. Myworldly assets consist of about a hundred dollars in cash and a sixdollar wedding ring which I bought as I came through Port Agnew. Withthese wordly goods and all the love and honor and respect a man canpossibly have for a woman, I desire to endow you. Answer me quickly.Yes or no?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "You chatterbox! When?"

  "At your pleasure."

  "That's trading talk. We'll be married this afternoon." He stretchedout his long arms for her and as she slid off the low hassock andknelt beside his chair, he gathered her hungrily to him and held herthere for a long time before he spoke again. When he did it was tosay, with an air of wonder that was almost childlike:

  "I never knew it was possible for a man to be so utterly wretched andso tremendously happy and all within the same hour. I love you so muchit hurts." He released her and glanced at his watch. "It is now twoo'clock, Nan. If we leave here by three we can reach the county seatby five o'clock, procure a license and be married by six. By half pastseven we will have finished our wedding supper and by about teno'clock we shall be back at the Sawdust Pile. Put a clean pair ofrompers on the young fellow and let's go! From this day forward welive, like the Sinn Fein. 'For ourselves alone.'"

  While Nan was preparing for that hurried ceremony, Donald strolledabout the little yard, looking over the neglected garden and markingfor future attention various matters such as a broken hinge on thegate, some palings off the fence and the crying necessity for paint onthe little white house, for he was striving mightily to shut out allthought of his past life and concentrate on matters that had to dowith the future. Presently he wandered out on the bulkhead. The greatwhite gulls which spent their leisure hours gravely contemplating theBight of Tyee from the decaying piling, rose lazily at his approachand with hoarse cries of resentment flapped out to sea; his dullglance followed them and rested on a familiar sight.

  Through the Bight of Tyee his father's barkentine Kohala was cominghome from Honolulu, ramping in before a twenty mile breeze with everyshred of canvas drawing. She was heeled over to starboard a little andthere was a pretty little bone in her teeth; the colors streamed fromher mizzen rigging while from her foretruck the house-flag flew. IdlyDonald watched her until she was abreast and below The Dreamerie andher house-flag dipped in salute to the master watching from the cliff;instantly the young Laird of Tyee saw a woolly puff of smoke breakfrom the terrace below the house and several seconds later the dullboom of the signal gun. His heart was constricted. "Ah, never for me!"he murmured, "never for me--until he tells them to look toward theSawdust Pile for the master!"

  He strode out to the gate where his father's chauffeur waited with thelimousine. "Take the car home," he ordered, "and as you pass throughtown stop in at the Central Garage and tell them to send a closed carover to me here."

  The chauffeur looked at him with surprise but obeyed at once. By thetime the hired car had arrived Nan and her child were ready, and justbefore locking the house Nan, realizing that they would not return tothe Sawdust Pile until long after nightfall, hauled in the flag thatfloated over the little cupola; and for the second time, old Hector,watching up on the cliff, viewed this infallible portent of an eventout of the ordinary. His hand trembled as he held his marine glassesto his blurred eyes and focussed on The Sawdust Pile, in time to seehis son enter the limousine with Nan Brent and her child--and even atthat distance he could see that the car in which they were departingfrom the Sawdust Pile was not the one in which Donald had left TheDreamerie. From that fact alone The Laird deduced that his son hadmade his choice; and because Donald was his father's son, imbued withthe same fierce high pride and love of independence, he declined to beunder obligation to his people even for the service of an automobileupon his wedding day.

  The Laird stood watching the car until it was out of sight; then hesighed very deeply, entered the house and rang for the butler.

  "Tell Mrs. McKaye and the young ladies that
I would thank them to comehere at once," he ordered calmly.

  They came precipitately, vaguely apprehensive. "My dears," he said inan unnaturally subdued voice, "Donald has just left the Sawdust Pilewith the Brent lass to be married. He has made his bed and it is mywish that he shall lie in it."

  "Oh, Hector!" Mrs. McKaye had spoken quaveringly. "Oh, Hector, dear,do not be hard on him!"

  He raised his great arm as if to silence further argument. "He hasbrought disgrace upon my house. He is no longer son of mine and we arediscussing him for the last time. Hear me, now. There will be nofurther mention of Donald in my presence and I forbid you, Nellie,you, Elizabeth and you, Jane, to have aught to do wie him, directly orindirectly."

  Mrs. McKaye sat down abruptly and commenced to weep and wail her woealoud, while Jane sought vainly to comfort her. Elizabeth bore thenews with extreme fortitude; with unexpected tact she took her fatherby the arm and steered him outside and along the terrace walk wherethe agonized sobs and moans of her mother could not be heard--for whatElizabeth feared in that first great moment of remorse was a torrentof self-accusation from her mother. If, as her father had stated,Donald was en route to be married, then the mischief was done and nogood could come out of a confession to The Laird of the manner inwhich the family honor had been compromised, not by Donald, but by hismother, aided and abetted by his sisters! The Laird, now quite dumbwith distress, walked in silence with his eldest daughter, vaguelyconscious of the comfort of her company and sympathy in his hour oftrial.

  When Elizabeth could catch Jane's attention through the window shecautiously placed her finger on her lip and frowned a warning. Janenodded her comprehension and promptly bore her mother off to bed whereshe gave the poor soul some salutary advice and left her to the meagercomfort of solitude and smelling salts.

  * * * * *

  Just before he retired that night, The Laird saw a light shinesuddenly forth from the Sawdust Pile. So he knew his son had selecteda home for his bride, and rage and bitterness mingled with his griefand mangled pride to such an extent that he called upon God to takehim out of a world that had crumbled about his hoary head. He shookhis fist at the little light that blinked so far below him and Mrs.McKaye, who had crept down stairs with a half-formed notion ofconfessing to The Laird in the hope of mitigating her son'soffense--of, mother-like, taking upon her shoulders an equal burden ofthe blame--caught a glimpse of old Hector's face, and her couragefailed her. Thoroughly frightened she returned noiselessly to her roomand wept, dry-eyed, for the fountain of her tears had long since beenexhausted.

  Meanwhile, down at the Sawdust Pile, Nan was putting her drowsy son tobed; in the little living-room her husband had lighted the driftwoodfire and had drawn the old divan up to the blue flames. He was sittingwith his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, outliningplans for their future, when Nan, having put her child to bed, cameand sat down beside him. He glanced at her with troubled eyes andgrinned a trifle foolishly.

  "Happy?" he queried.

  She nodded. "In a limited fashion only, dear heart. I'm thinking howwonderfully courageous you have been to marry me and how tremendouslygrateful I shall always be for your love and faith." She captured hisright hand and fondled it for a moment in both of hers, smiling alittle thoughtfully the while as if at some dear little secret. "PortAgnew will think I married you for money," she resumed presently;"your mother and sisters will think I married you to spite them andyour father will think I married you because you insisted and becauseI was storm-tossed and had to find a haven from the world. But thereal reason is that I love you and know that some day I am going tosee more happiness in your eyes than I can see to-night."

  Again, in that impulsive way she had, she bent and kissed his hand."Dear King Cophetua," she murmured, "your beggar maid will never bedone with adoring you." She looked up at him with a sweet and lovelywistfulness shining in her sea-blue eyes. "And the sweetest thingabout it, you angelic simpleton," she added, "is that you will never,never, never know why."