Kindred of the Dust Part 12

"I dare say your visit has something to do with the unenviable social position in which I find myself in Port Agnew, Mrs. Daney, for I cannot imagine any other possible interest in me to account for it. So you may be quite frank. I'm sure nothing save a profound sense of duty brought you here, and I am prepared to listen." This was a degree of graciousness the lady had not antic.i.p.ated, and it put her at her ease immediately.

"I've called to talk to you about Donald McKaye," she began abruptly.

"At the solicitation of whom?"

"n.o.body." Mrs. Daney sighed. "It was just an idea of mine."

"Ah--I think I prefer it that way. Proceed, Mrs. Daney."

"Young Mr. McKaye is unduly interested in you, Nan--at least, that is the impression of a number of people in Port Agnew."

"I object to the use of the adverb 'unduly' in connection with Mr.

Donald's interest in my father and me. But no matter. Since Port Agnew has no interest in me, pray why, Mrs. Daney, should I have the slightest interest in the impressions of these people you refer to and whose volunteer representative you appear to be?"

"There! I knew you would be offended!" Mrs. Daney cried, with a deprecatory shrug. "I'm sure I find this a most difficult matter to discuss, and I a.s.sure you, I do not desire to appear offensive."

"Well, you are; but I can stand it, and whether I resent it or not cannot be a matter of much import to you or the others. And I'll try not to be disagreeable. Just why did you come to see me, Mrs. Daney?"

"I might as well speak plainly, Miss Brent. Donald McKaye's action in ridding the Sawdust Pile of your neighbors has occasioned comment. It appears that this was his first official act after a.s.suming his father's place in the business. Then he visited you and your father for an hour, and your child, whom it appears you have named Donald, called him 'daddy.' Then, last Sat.u.r.day night, Mr. McKaye sent over some clothing for the boy--"

"Whereupon the amateur detectives took up the trail," Nan interrupted bitterly. "And you heard of it immediately."

"His father heard of it also," Mrs. Daney continued. "It worries him."

"It should not. He should have more faith in his son, Mrs. Daney."

"He is a father, my dear, very proud of his son, very devoted to him, and fearfully ambitious for Donald's future."

"And you fear that I may detract from the radiance of that future? Is that it?"

"In plain English," the worthy lady replied brutally, "it is."

"I see your point of view very readily, Mrs. Daney. Your apprehensions are ridiculous--almost pathetic, Don McKaye's great sympathy is alone responsible for his hardihood in noticing me, and he is so much too big for Port Agnew that it is no wonder his motives are misunderstood.

However, I am sorry his father is worried. We have a very great respect for The Laird; indeed, we owe him a debt of grat.i.tude, and there is nothing my father or I would not do to preserve his peace of mind."

"The talk will die out, of course, unless something should occur to revive it, Miss Brent--I mean, Nan. But it would be just like Donald McKaye to start a revival of this gossip. He doesn't care a farthing for what people think or say, and he is too young to realize that one _must_ pay _some_ attention to public opinion. You realize that, of course."

"I ought to, Mrs. Daney. I think I have had some experience of public opinion," Nan replied sadly.

"Then, should Donald McKaye's impulsive sympathy lead him to--er--"

"You mean that I am to discourage him in the event--"

"Precisely, Miss Brent. For his father's sake."

"Not to mention your husband's position. Precisely, Mrs. Daney."

Mary Daney's heart fluttered.

"I have trusted to your honor, Nan--although I didn't say so in the beginning--not to mention my visit or this interview to a living soul."

"My 'honor!'" Nan's low, bitter laugh raked the Daney nerves like a rasp. "I think, Mrs. Daney, that I may be depended upon to follow my own inclinations in this matter. I suspect you have been doing some talking yourself and may have gone too far, with the result that you are hastening now, by every means in your power, to undo whatever harm, real or fancied, has grown out of your lack of charity."

"Nan, I beg of you--"

"Don't! You have no right to beg anything of me. I am not unintelligent and neither am I degraded. I think I possess a far keener conception of my duty than do you or those whom you have elected to represent; hence I regard this visit as an unwarranted impertinence. One word from me to Donald McKaye--"

Terror smote the Samaritan. She clasped her hands; her lips were pale and trembling.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't breathe a word to him, would you? Promise me you'll say nothing. How could I face my husband if--if--" She began to weep.

"I shall promise nothing," Nan replied sternly.

"But I only came for his father's sake, you cruel girl!"

"Perhaps his father's case is safer in my hands than in yours, Mrs.

Daney, and safest of all in those of his son."

The outcast of Port Agnew rose, filled her ap.r.o.n with the driftwood she had gathered, and called to her child. As the little fellow approached, Mrs. Daney so far forgot her perturbation as to look at him keenly and decide, eventually, that he bore not the faintest resemblance to Donald McKaye.

"I'm sure, Nan, you will not be heartless enough to tell Donald McKaye of my visit to you," she pleaded, as the girl started down the beach.

"You have all the a.s.surance of respectability, dear Mrs. Daney," Nan answered carelessly.

"You shall not leave me until you promise to be silent!" Mary Daney cried hysterically, and rose to follow her.

"I think you had better go, Mrs. Daney. I am quite familiar with the figure of The Laird since his retirement; he walks round the bight with his dogs every afternoon for exercise, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, that is he coming down the beach."

Mrs. Daney cast a terrified glance in the direction indicated. A few hundred yards up the beach she recognized The Laird, striding briskly along, swinging his stick, and with his two English setters romping beside him. With a final despairing "Please Nan; please do not be cruel!" she fled, Nan Brent smiling mischievously after her stout retreating form.

"I have condemned you to the horrors of uncertainty," the girl soliloquized. "How very, very stupid you are, Mrs. Daney, to warn me to protect him! As if I wouldn't lay down my life to uphold his honor!

Nevertheless, you dear old bungling busybody, you are absolutely right, although I suspect no altruistic reason carried you forth on this uncomfortable errand."

Nan had heretofore, out of the bitterness of her life, formed the opinion that brickbats were for the lowly, such as she, and bouquets solely for the great, such as Donald McKaye. Now, for the first time, she realized that human society is organized in three strata--high, mediocre, and low, and that when a mediocrity has climbed to the seats of the mighty, his fellows strive to drag him back, down to their own ign.o.ble level--or lower. To Nan, child of poverty, sorrow, and solitude, the world had always appeared more or less incomprehensible, but this afternoon, as she retraced her slow steps to the Sawdust Pile, the old dull pain of existence had become more complicated and acute with the knowledge that the first ray of sunlight that had entered her life in three years was about to be withdrawn; and at the thought, tears, which seemed to well from her heart rather than from her eyes, coursed down her cheeks and a sob broke through her clenched lips.

Her progress homeward, what with the heavy bundle of driftwood, in her ap.r.o.n impeding her stride, coupled with the necessity for frequent pauses to permit her child to catch up with her, was necessarily slow--so slow, in fact, that presently she heard quick footsteps behind her and, turning, beheld Hector McKaye. He smiled, lifted his hat, and greeted her pleasantly.

"Good-afternoon, Miss Nan. That is a heavy burden of driftwood you carry, my dear. Here--let me relieve you of it. I've retired, you know, and the necessity for finding something to do--Bless my soul, the girl's crying!" He paused, hat in hand, and gazed at her with frank concern. She met his look bravely.

"Thank you, Mr. McKaye. Please do not bother about it."

"Oh, but I shall bother," he answered. "Remove your ap.r.o.n, girl, and I'll tie the wood up in it and carry it home for you."

Despite her distress, she smiled.

"You're such an old-fas.h.i.+oned gentleman," she replied. "So very much like your son--I mean, your son is so very much like you."

"That's better. I think I enjoy the compliment more when you put it that way," he answered. "Do not stand there holding the wood, my girl.

Drop it."