Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XIII

  Having done that which her conscience dictated, Nan Brent returned toher home a prey to many conflicting emotions, chief of which were aquiet sense of exaltation in the belief that she had played fair byboth old Hector and his son, and a sense of depression in theknowledge that she would not see Donald McKaye again. As a boy, shehad liked him tremendously; as a man, she knew she liked him evenbetter.

  She was quite certain she had never met a man who was quite fit tobreathe the same air with Donald McKaye; already she had magnified hisvirtues until, to her, he was rapidly assuming the aspect of anarchangel--a feeling which bordered perilously on adoration.

  But deep down in her woman's heart she was afraid, fearing for her ownweakness. The past had brought her sufficient anguish--she dared notrisk a future filled with unsatisfied yearning that comes of a greatlove suppressed or denied.

  She felt better about it as she walked homeward; it seemed that shehad regained, in a measure, some peace of mind, and as she prepareddinner for her father and her child, she was almost cheerful. A warmglow of self-complacency enveloped her. Later, when old Caleb and theboy had retired and she sat before the little wood fire alone with herthoughts, this feeling of self-conscious rectitude slowly left her,and into its place crept a sense of desolation inspired by onethought that obtruded upon her insistently, no matter how desperatelyshe drove her mind to consider other things. She was not to see himagain--no, never any more. Those fearless, fiery gray eyes that wereall abeam with tenderness and complete understanding that day he lefther at the gate; those features that no one would ever term handsome,yet withal so rugged, so strong, so pregnant of character, sopeculiarly winning when lighted by the infrequent smile--she was neverto gaze upon them again. It did not seem quite fair that, for all thatthe world had denied her, it should withhold from her thisinconsequent delight. This was carrying misfortune too far; it wasterrible--unbearable almost--

  A wave of self-pity, the most acute misery of a tortured soul, surgedover her; she laid her fair head on her arms outspread upon the table,and gave herself up to wild sobbing. In her desolation, she calledaloud, piteously, for that mother she had hardly known, as if shewould fain summon that understanding spirit and in her arms seek thecomfort that none other in this world could give her. So thoroughlydid she abandon herself to this first--and final--paroxysm of despairthat she failed to hear a tentative rap upon the front door and,shortly, the tread of rough-shod feet on the board walk round thehouse. Her first intimation that some one had arrived to comfort hercame in the shape of a hard hand that thrust itself gently under herchin and lifted her face from her arms.

  Through the mist of her tears she saw only the vague outlines of a manclad in heavy woolen shirt and mackinaw, such as her father frequentlywore.

  "Oh, father, father!" she cried softly, and laid her head on hisbreast, while her arms went round his neck. "I'm so terribly unhappy!I can't bear it--I can't! Just--because he chose to be--kind tous--those gossips--as if anybody could help being fond of him--"

  She was held tight in his arms.

  "Not your father, Nan." Donald murmured in a low voice.

  She drew away from him with a sharp little cry of amazement andchagrin, but his great arms closed round her and drew her close again.

  "Poor dear," he told her, "you were calling for your mother. Youwanted a breast to weep upon, didn't you? Well, mine is here for you."

  "Oh, sweetheart, you mustn't!" she cried passionately, her lipsunconsciously framing the unspoken cry of her heart as she strove toescape from him.

  "Ah, but I shall!" he answered. "You've called me 'sweetheart,' andthat gives me the right." And he kissed her hot cheek and laughed thelight, contented little laugh of the conqueror, nor could all herfrantic pleadings and struggling prevail upon him to let her go. Inthe end, she did the obvious, the human thing. She clasped him tightlyround the neck, and, forgetting everything in the consuming wonder ofthe fact that this man loved her with a profound and holy love, sheweakly gave herself up to his caresses, satisfying her heart-hungerfor a few blessed, wonderful moments before hardening herself to theterrible task of impressing upon him the hopelessness of it all andsending him upon his way. By degrees, she cried herself dry-eyed andleaned against him, striving to collect her dazed thoughts. And thenhe spoke.

  "I know what you're going to say, dear. From a worldly point of view,you are quite right. Seemingly, without volition on our part, we haveevolved a distressing, an impossible situation--"

  "Oh, I'm so glad that you understand!" she gasped.

  "And yet," he continued soberly, "love such as ours is not a lightthing to be passed lightly by. To me, Nan Brent, you are sacred; toyou, I yearn to be all things that--the--other man was not. I didn'trealize until I entered unannounced and found you so desolate that Iloved you. For two weeks you have been constantly in my thoughts, andI know now that, after all, you were my boyhood sweetheart."

  "I know you were mine," she agreed brokenly. "But that's just a littletender memory now, even if we said nothing about it then. We arechildren no longer, Donald dear; we must be strong and not surrenderto our selfish love."

  "I do not regard it as selfish," he retorted soberly. "It seems mostperfectly natural and inevitable. Why, Nan, I didn't even pay you thepreliminary compliment of telling you I loved you or asking you if youreciprocated my affection. It appeared to me I didn't have to; that itwas a sort of mutual understanding--for here we are. It seems it justwas to be--like the law of gravitation."

  She smiled up at him, despite her mental pain.

  "I'm not so certain, dear," she answered, "that I'm not wicked enoughto rejoice. It will make our renunciation all the easier--for me. Ihave known great sorrow, but to-night, for a little while, I havesurrendered myself to great happiness, and nothing--nothing--can everrob me of the last shred of that. You are my man, Donald. Theknowledge that you love me is going to draw much of the sting out ofexistence. I know I cannot possess you, but I can resign myself tothat and not be embittered."

  "Well," he answered dully, "I can give you up--because I have to; butI shall never be resigned about it, and I fear I may be embittered. Isthere no hope, Nan?"

  "A faint one--some day, perhaps, if I outlive another."

  "I'll wait for that day, Nan. Meanwhile, I shall ask no questions. Ilove you enough to accept your love on faith, for, by God, you're agood woman!"

  Her eyes shown with a wonderful radiance as she drew his face down tohers and kissed him on the lips.

  "It's sweet of you to say that; I could love you for that alone, werethere nothing else, Donald. But tell me, dear, did you receive myletter?"

  "Yes--and ignored it. That's why I'm here."

  "That was a risk you should not have taken."

  He looked thoughtfully at the multicolored flame of the driftwoodfire.

  "Well, you see, Nan, it didn't occur to me that I was taking a risk; aconfession of love was the last thing I would have thought wouldhappen."

  "Then why did you disregard that letter that cost me such an effort towrite?"

  "Well," he replied slowly, "I guess it's because I'm the captain of mysoul--or try to be, at any rate. I didn't think it quite fair that youshould be shunned; it occurred to me that I wouldn't be playing amanly part to permit the idle mewing of the Port Agnew tabbies tofrighten me away. I didn't intend to fall in love with you--Oh, dratmy reasons! I'm here because I'm here. And in the matter of that oldhen--" He paused and favored her with a quizzical smile.

  "Yes?"

  "I brought a substitute hen with me--all ready for the pot, and if Ican't come to dinner to-morrow, I'm going to face a very lonelySunday."

  "You ridiculous boy! Of course you may come, although it must be thefinal visit. You realize that we owe it to ourselves not to make ourburden heavier than it's going to be."

  He nodded.

  "'Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we may be dead,'" he quoted."Let's sit down and talk it over. I haven't sat in front of adriftwoo
d fire since I was a boy. Queer how the salt in the woodcolors the flames, isn't it?"

  It occurred to her for a fleeting moment that they two were driftwood,and that the salt of their tears would color their lives as the yearsconsumed them. But she banished from her mind all thought ofeverything save the present. With a contented little sigh she seatedherself beside him; her hand stole into his and, soothed and sustainedby the comforting touch, each of the other, gradually the first terrorof their predicament faded; ere long, Donald reminded her of herpromise, and she stole to the old square piano and sang for him while,without, Dirty Dan O'Leary crouched in the darkness and thrilled atthe rippling melody.

  At ten o'clock, when Donald left the Sawdust Pile, he and Nan hadarrived at a firm determination to follow separate paths, nor seek tolevel the barrier that circumstance had raised between them.

  "Some day--perhaps," he whispered, as he held her to his heart in thedark-it the garden gate. "While I live, I shall love you. Good-by, oldsweetheart!"