Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XLV

  Hector McKaye suffered that winter. He dwelt in Gethsemane, for he hadincurred to his outcast son the greatest debt that one man can incurto another, and he could not publicly acknowledge the debt or hope torepay it in kind. By the time spring came his heart hunger was almostbeyond control; there were times when, even against his will, hecontemplated a reconciliation with Donald based on an acceptance ofthe latter's wife but with certain reservations. The Laird never quitegot around to defining the reservation but in a vague way he felt thatthey should exist and that eventually Donald would come to arealization of the fact and help him define them.

  Each Sunday during that period of wretchedness he saw his boy and Nanat church, although they no longer sat with Mr. Daney. From ReverendTingley The Laird learned that Donald now had a pew of his own, and hewondered why. He knew his son had never been remotely religious andeventually he decided that, in his son's place, though he were thedevil himself, he would do exactly as Donald had done. Damn a dog thatcarried a low head and a dead tail! It was the sign of the mongrelstrain--curs always crept under the barn when beaten!

  One Sunday in the latter part of May he observed that Nan came tochurch alone. He wondered if Donald was at home ill and a vagueapprehension stabbed him; he longed to drop into step beside Nan asshe left the church and ask her, but, of course, that was unthinkable.Nevertheless he wished he knew and that afternoon he spent the entiretime on the terrace at The Dreamerie, searching the Sawdust Pile withhis marine glasses, in the hope of seeing Donald moving about thelittle garden. But he did not see him, and that night his sleep wasmore troubled than usual.

  On the following Sunday Nan was not accompanied by her husband either.The Laird decided, therefore, that Donald could not be very ill,otherwise Nan would not have left him home alone. This thoughtcomforted him somewhat. During the week he thought frequently oftelephoning up to Darrow and asking if they still had the sameraftsman on the pay-roll, but his pride forbade this. So he drove upthe river road one day and stopped his car among the trees on the bankof the river from the Darrow log boom. A tall, lively young fellow wasleaping nimbly about on the logs, but so active was he that even attwo hundred yards The Laird could not be certain this man was his son.He returned to Port Agnew more troubled and distressed than ever.

  Mrs. McKaye and the girls had made three flying visits down to PortAgnew during the winter and The Laird had spent his week-ends inSeattle twice; otherwise, save for the servants, he was quite alone atThe Dreamerie and this did not add to his happiness. Gradually thecontinued and inexplicable absence of Donald at Sunday service becamean obsession with him; he could think of nothing else in his sparemoments and even at times when it was imperative he should give all ofhis attention to important business matters, this eternal, damnablequery continued to confront him. It went to bed with him and got upwith him and under its steady relentless attrition he began to losethe look of robust health that set him off so well among men of hisown age. His eyes took on a worried, restless gleam; he was irritableand in the mornings he frequently wore to the office the haggardappearance that speaks so accusingly of a sleepless night. He lost hisappetite and in consequence he lost weight. Andrew Daney was greatlyconcerned about him, and one day, apropos of nothing, he demanded abill of particulars.

  "Oh, I daresay I'm getting old, Andrew," The Laird replied evasively.

  "Worrying about the boy?"

  It was a straight shot and old Hector was too inexpressibly weary toattempt to dodge it. He nodded sadly.

  "Well, let us hope he'll come through all right, sir."

  "Is he ill? What's wrong with him, Andrew? Man, I've been eating myheart out for months, wondering what it is, but you know the fix I'min. I don't like to ask and not a soul in Port Agnew will discuss himwith me."

  "Why, there's nothing wrong with him that I'm aware of, sir. I spoketo Nan after services last Sunday and she read me a portion of hislast letter. He was quite well at that time."

  "W-wh-where is he, Andrew?"

  "Somewhere in France. He's not allowed to tell."

  "France? Good God, Andrew, not _France_!"

  "Why not, may I ask? Of course he's in France. He enlisted as aprivate shortly after war was declared. Dirty Dan quit his job andwent with him. They went over with the Fifth Marines. Do you mean totell me this is news to you?" he added, frankly amazed.

  "I do," old Hector mumbled brokenly. "Oh, Andrew man, this isterrible, terrible. I canna stand it, man." He sat down and coveredhis face with his trembling old hands.

  "Why can't you? You wouldn't want him to sit at home and be a slacker,would you? And you wouldn't have a son of yours wait until the draftboard took him by the ear and showed him his duty, would you?"

  "If he's killed I'll nae get over it." The Laird commenced to weepchildishly.

  "Well, better men or at least men as fine, are paying that price forcitizenship, Hector McKaye."

  "But his wife, man? He was married. 'Twas not expected of him--"

  "I believe his wife is more or less proud of him, sir. Her people havealways followed the flag in some capacity."

  "But how does she exist? Andrew Daney, if you're giving her themoney--"

  "If I am you have no right to ask impertinent questions about it. ButI'm not."

  "I never knew it, I never knew it," the old man complained bitterly."Nobody tells me anything about my own son. I'm alone; I sit in thedarkness, stifling with money--oh, Andrew, Andrew, I didn't saygood-by to him! I let him go in sorrow and in anger."

  "You may have time to cure all that. Go down to the Sawdust Pile, takethe girl to your heart like a good father should and then cable theboy. That will square things beautifully."

  Even in his great distress the stubborn old head was shakenemphatically. The Laird of Port Agnew was not yet ready to surrender.

  Spring lengthened into summer and summer into fall. Quail piped in thelogged-over lands and wild ducks whistled down through the timber andrested on the muddy bosom of the Skookum, but for the first time inforty years The Laird's setters remained in their kennels and hisfowling pieces in their leather cases. To him the wonderful red andgold of the great Northern woods had lost the old allurement and he nolonger thrilled when a ship of his fleet, homeward bound, dipped herhouse-flag far below him. He was slowly disintegrating.

  Of late he had observed that Nan no longer came to church, so heassumed she had found the task of facing her world bravely onesomewhat beyond her strength. A few months before, this realizationwould have proved a source of savage satisfaction to him, but time andsuffering were working queer changes in his point of view. Now,although he told himself it served her right, he was sensible of asmall feeling of sympathy for her and a large feeling of resentmentagainst the conditions that had brought her into conflict with theworld.

  "I daresay," Andrew Daney remarked to him about Christmas time, "youhaven't forgotten your resolve to do something handsome for thatraftsman of Darrow's who saved your life last January. You told me toremind you of him at Christmas."

  "I have not forgotten the incident," old Hector answered savagely.

  "I think it might be a nice thing to do if you would send word to Nan,by me, that it will please you if she will consent to have yourgrandchild born in the company hospital. Otherwise, I imagine she willgo to a Seattle hospital, and with doctors and nurses away to the warthere's a chance she may not get the best of care."

  "Do as you see fit," The Laird answered. He longed to evade theissue--he realized that Daney was crowding him always, setting trapsfor him, driving him relentlessly toward a reconciliation that wasabhorrent to him. "I have no objection. She cannot afford the expenseof a Seattle hospital, I daresay, and I do not desire to oppress her."

  The following day Mr. Daney reported that Nan had declined with thankshis permission to enter the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital. As asoldier's wife she would be cared for without expense in the BaseHospital at Camp Lewis, less than a day's journey distant.

  The Laird
actually quivered when Daney broke this news to him. He washurt--terribly hurt--but he dared not admit it. In January he learnedthrough Mr. Daney that he was a grandfather to a nine-pound boy andthat Nan planned to call the baby Caleb, after her father. For thefirst time in his life then, The Laird felt a pang of jealousy. Whilethe child could never, by any possibility, be aught to him,nevertheless he felt that in the case of a male child a certain politedeference toward the infant's paternal ancestors was alwayscommendable. At any rate, Caleb was Yankee and hateful.

  "I am the twelfth of my line to be named Hector," he saidpresently--and Andrew Daney with difficulty repressed a roar ofmaniac laughter. Instead he said soberly.

  "The child's playing in hard luck as matters stand; it would be addinginsult to injury to call him Hector McKaye, Thirteenth. Isn't that whyyou named your son Donald?"

  The Laird pretended not to hear this. Having been fired on fromambush, as it were, he immediately started discussing an order forsome ship timbers for the Emergency Fleet Corporation. When he retiredto his own office, however, he locked the door and wept with sympathyfor his son, so far away and in the shadow of death upon the occasionof the birth of his first son.