Kindred of the Dust

by Peter B. Kyne

  XXVI

  By an apparent inconsistency in the natural order of human affairs, itseems that women are called upon far oftener than men to make thehardest sacrifices; also, the call finds them far more willing, if thesacrifice is demanded of them by love. Until Andrew Daney had appearedat the Sawdust Pile with the suddenness of a genie (and a singularlybenevolent genie at that), Nan had spent many days wondering what fatethe future held in store for her. With all the ardor of a prisoner,she had yearned to leave her jail, although she realized that freedomfor her meant economic ruin. On the Sawdust Pile, she could exist onthe income from the charter of the Brutus, for she had no rent to payand no fuel to buy; her proximity to the sea, her little garden and afew chickens still further solved her economic problems. Away from theSawdust Pile, however, life meant parting with her baby. She wouldhave to place him in some sort of public institution if she would befree to earn a living for them both, and she was not aware that shepossessed any adaptability for any particular labor which would enableher to earn one hundred dollars a month, the minimum sum upon whichshe could, by the strictest economy, manage to exist and support herchild. Too well she realized the difficulty which an inexperiencedwoman has in securing employment in an office or store at a wagewhich, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, may be termedlucrative, and, lacking funds wherewith to tide her over until sheshould acquire experience, or even until she should be fortunateenough to secure any kind of work, inevitable starvation faced her.Her sole asset was her voice; she had a vague hope that if she couldever acquire sufficient money to go to New York and buy herself justsufficient clothing to look well dressed and financially independent,she might induce some vaudeville impresario to permit her to spendfifteen minutes twice or four times daily, singing old-fashioned songsto the proletariat at something better than a living wage. She had anidea for a turn to be entitled, "Songs of the 'Sixties."

  The arrival of Andrew Daney with twenty-five hundred dollars mighthave been likened to an eleventh-hour reprieve for a condemnedmurderer. Twenty-five hundred dollars! Why, she and Don could live twoyears on that! She was free--at last! The knowledge exalted her--inthe reaction from a week of contemplating a drab, barren future, shegave no thought to the extreme unlikelihood of anyone's daring tosteal a forty-foot motor-boat on a coast where harbors are so few andfar between as they are on the Pacific. Had old Caleb been alive, hewould have informed her that such action was analogous to the theft ofa hot stove, and that no business man possessed of a grain of commonsense would have hastened to reimburse her for the loss after aninconsequential search of only two days. Had she been more worldlywise, she would have known that business men do not part withtwenty-five hundred dollars that readily--otherwise, they would not bebusiness men and would not be possessed of twenty-five hundreddollars. Nan only realized that, in handing her a roll of bank-noteswith a rubber band round them, Andrew Daney had figuratively given herthe key to her prison, against the bars of which her soul had beatenfor three long years.

  Now, it is doubtful whether any woman ever loved a man without feelingfully assured that she, more than any other person, was betterequipped to decide exactly what was best for that man. Her woman'sintuition told Nan that Donald McKaye was not to be depended upon toconserve the honor of the McKaye family by refraining from consideringan alliance with her. Also, knowing full well the passionate yearningsof her own heart and the weakness of her economic position, she shrankfrom submitting herself to the task of repelling his advances. Wherehe was concerned, she feared her own weakness--she, who had enduredthe brutality of the world, could not endure that the world'sbrutality should be visited upon him because of his love for her.Strong of will, self-reliant, a born fighter, and as stiff-necked ashis father, his yearning to possess her, coupled with his instinct forfair play, might and probably would lead him to tell the world to gohang, that he would think for himself and take his happiness where hefound it. By all means, this must be prevented. Nan felt that shecould not permit him to risk making a sorry mess of a life of promise.

  Consumed with such thoughts as these, it was obvious that Nan shouldpursue but one course--that is, leave Port Agnew unannounced andendeavor to hide herself where Donald McKaye would never find her. Inthis high resolve, once taken, she did not falter; she even declinedto risk rousing the suspicions of the townspeople by appearing at thegeneral store to purchase badly needed articles of clothing forherself and her child. She resolved to leave Port Agnew in the bestclothes she had, merely pausing a few days in her flight--atVancouver, perhaps--to shop, and then continuing on to New York.

  On the morning of her departure, the butcher's boy, calling for anorder, agreed, for fifty cents, to transport her one small trunk onhis cart to the station. The little white house which she and herfather had built with so much pride and delight, she left furnished asit was and in perfect order. As she stood at the front door and lookedback for the last time, the ticking of the clock in the tinydining-and-living room answered her mute, "Good-by, little house;good-by," and, though her heart was full enough, she kept back thetears until she saw the flag flying bravely at the cupola.

  "Oh, my love, my love!" she sobbed. "I mustn't leave it flying there,flaunting my desertion in your dear eyes."

  Blinded by her tears, she groped her way back to the house, hauleddown the flag, furled it, and laid it away in a bureau drawer. Andthis time, when she left the house, she did not look back.

  * * * * *

  At the station, she purchased a ticket for Seattle and checked hertrunk at the baggage-room counter. As she turned from the counter andstarted for the waiting-room, she caught the interested eyes of oldHector McKaye bent upon her. He lifted his hat and walked over to her.

  "I happened to be looking down at the Sawdust Pile when you hauledyour flag down this morning," he explained, in a low voice. "So I knewyou were going away. That's why I'm here." To this extraordinaryspeech, the girl merely replied with an inquiring look. "I wonder ifyou will permit me to be as kind to you as I can," he continued. "Iknow it sounds a bit blunt and vulgar to offer you money, but when oneneeds money--"

  "I have sufficient for my present needs," she replied. "Mr. Daney haspaid me for the loss of my motor-boat, you know. You are very kind;but I think I shall have no need to impose further on your generosity.I think the twenty-five hundred dollars will last me nicely until Ihave made a new start in life."

  "Ah!" The Laird breathed softly, "Twenty-five hundred dollars. Yes,yes! So he did; so he did! And are you leaving Port Agnewindefinitely, Nan?"

  "Forever," she replied. "We have robbed you of the ground for adrying-yard for nearly ten years, but this morning the Sawdust Pile isyours."

  "Bless my soul!" The Laird ejaculated. "Why, we are not at all indistress for more drying-space."

  "Mr. Daney intimated that you were. He asked me how much I would taketo abandon my squatter's right, but I declined to charge you a singlecent." She smiled up at him a ghost of her sweet, old-time whimsicalsmile. "It was the first opportunity I had to be magnanimous to theMcKaye family, and I hastened to take advantage of it. I merely turnedthe key in the lock and departed."

  "Daney has been a trifle too zealous for the Tyee interests, I fear,"he replied gently. "And where do you plan to live?"

  "That," she retorted, still smilingly, "is a secret. It may interestyou, Mr. McKaye, to know that I am not even leaving a forwardingaddress for my mail. You see, I never receive any letters of animportant nature."

  He was silent a moment, digesting this. Then,

  "And does my son share a confidence which I am denied?"

  "He does not, Mr. McKaye. This is my second opportunity to do thedecent thing toward the McKaye family--so I am doing it. I plan tomake rather a thorough job of it, too. You--you'll be very kind andpatient with him, will you not? He's going to feel rather badly, youknow, but, then, I never encouraged him. It's all his fault, Ithink--I tried to play fair--and it was so hard." Her voice sunk to amere whisper. "I'
ve always loved Donald, Mr. McKaye. Most people do;so I have not regarded it as sinful on my part."

  "You are abandoning him of your own free will--"

  "Certainly. I have to. Surely you must realize that?"

  "Yes, I do. I have felt that he would never abandon you." He openedand closed his big hands nervously, and was plainly a trifle distrait."So--so this is your idea of playing the game, is it?" he demandedpresently. She nodded. "Well," he replied helplessly, "I would to GodI dared be as good a sport as you are, Nan Brent! Hear me, now, lass.Think of the thing in life you want to do and the place where you wantto do it--"

  She interrupted him.

  "No, no, Mr. McKaye; there can be no talk of money between us. Icannot and will not take your son--for his sake, and for my own sake Icannot and will not accept of your kindness. Somehow, some place, I'mgoing to paddle my own canoe."

  "Guid lass; guid lass," he whispered huskily. "Remember, then, ifyour canoe upsets and spills you, a wire to me will right you, and noquestions asked. Good-by, my dear, and good luck to you!"

  He pressed her hand, lifted his hat, and walked briskly away in thedirection of The Tyee Lumber Company's office, quite oblivious of thefact that his interview with Nan Brent had been observed by a personto whom the gods had given at birth a more than average propensity ofintrigue, romance, and general cussedness--Mr. Daniel J. O'Leary, ofwhom more anon.

  From the station, Hector McKaye hurried over to the mill office andentered Andrew Daney's room.

  "Andrew," he began, "you've been doing things. What became of oldCaleb Brent's motor-boat?"

  "I opened the sea-cock, cast it off, and let it drift out into thebight on the ebb-tide one night recently."

  "Why?"

  "In order that I might have a logical and reasonable excuse to furnishNan Brent with sufficient funds to leave this town and make a newstart elsewhere. I have charged the twenty-five hundred to yourpersonal account on the company books."

  "You also indulged in some extraordinary statements regarding ourpressing need for the Sawdust Pile as a drying-yard."

  "We can use it, sir," Daney replied. "I felt justified in indicatingto the girl that her room was desired to her company. Your son," headded deliberately, "was treading on soft ground, and I took thelicense of an old friend and, I hope, a faithful servant, to rid himof temptation."

  "I shall never be done with feeling grateful to you, Andrew. The girlis leaving on the train that's just pulling out, and--the incident isclosed. My son is young. He will get over it. Thank you, Andrew, dearfriend, until you're better paid--as you will be some day soon."

  "I'll have need of your friendship if Donald ever discovers my part inthis deal. He'll fire me out o' hand."

  "If he does, I'll hire you back."

  "Hell will pop when he finds the bird has flown, sir."

  "Let it pop! That kind of popping is music in my ears. Hark, Andrewlad! There's the train whistling for Darrow's Crossing. From there onthe trail is lost--lost--_lost_, I tell you! O Lord, God of Hosts, Ithank Thee for Thy great mercy!"

  And, quite suddenly, old Hector sat down and began to weep.

  XXVII

  Nan Brent's departure from the Sawdust Pile was known to so few inPort Agnew that it was fully ten days before the news became general;even then it excited no more than momentary comment, and a week laterwhen Donald McKaye returned to town, somewhat sooner than he hadanticipated, Port Agnew had almost forgotten that Nan Brent had everlived and loved and sinned in its virtuous midst. Even the smallgossip about her and the young laird had subsided, condemned by all,including the most thoughtless, as a gross injustice to their favoriteson, and consequently dismissed as the unworthy tattling of unworthy,suspicious old women. Life in the busy little sawmill town had againsagged into the doldrums.

  For several days, a feeling of lassitude had been stealing overDonald. At first he thought it was mental depression, but when, later,he developed nausea, lack of appetite, and pains in his head, back,and extremities, it occurred to him that he wasn't feeling wellphysically and that The Dreamerie was to be preferred to his roughpine shanty in the woods, even though in the latter he had sanctuaryfrom the female members of his family.

  He came in unexpectedly on the last log-train on Saturday night;tired, with throbbing head and trembling legs, he crawled off thecaboose at the log dump and made his way weakly up to the mill office.It was deserted when he got there at half-past six, but in hismail-box he found something which he had promised himself would bethere, despite certain well-remembered assurances to the contrary. Itwas a letter from Nan. He tore the envelop eagerly and read:

  Donald dear, I love you. That is why I am leaving you. We shall not meet again, I think. If we should, it will doubtless be years hence, and by that time we shall both have resigned ourselves to this present very necessary sacrifice. Good-by, poor dear.

  Always your sweetheart,

  NAN.

  He read and reread the letter several times. It was undated.Presently, with an effort, he recovered the envelop from thewaste-basket and examined the postmark. The letter had been mailedfrom Seattle, but the post-date was blurred.

  With the letter clutched in his hand, he bent forward and pillowed hishot face in his arms, outspread upon his father's old desk. He wantedto weep--to sob aloud in a childish effort to unburden his heart,scourged now with the first real sorrow of his existence. His throatcontracted; something in his breast appeared to have congealed, yetfor upward of an hour he neither moved nor gave forth a sound. Atlast, under the inspiration of a great hope that came apparentlywithout any mental effort or any desire for hope, so thoroughlycrushed was he, the black, touseled head came slowly up. His face,usually ruddy beneath the dark, suntanned skin but now white andhaggard, showed a fleeting little smile, as if he grinned at his ownweakness and lack of faith; he rose unsteadily and clumped out of theoffice-building.

  Gone! Nan gone--like that! No, no! He would not believe it. She mighthave intended to go--she might have wanted to go--she might even havestarted to go--but she had turned back! She loved him; she was his.During those long days and nights up in the woods, he had fought theissue with himself and made up his mind that Nan Brent was the onewoman in the world for him, that there could never, by God's grace, beany other, and that he would have her, come what might and be theprice what it would. Rather than the fortune for which his father hadtoiled and sacrificed, Donald preferred Nan's love; rather than a lifeof ease and freedom from worry, he looked forward with a fierce joy tolaboring with his hands for a pittance, provided he might have theprivilege of sharing it with her. And The Dreamerie, the house hisfather had built with such great, passionate human hopes and tenderyearnings, the young laird of Port Agnew could abandon without a pangfor that little white house on the Sawdust Pile. Round steak andpotatoes, fried by the woman destined to him for his perfect mate,would taste better to him than the choicest viands served by lightstepping servitors in his father's house.

  What, after all, was there worth while in the world for him if he wasto be robbed of his youth and his love? For him, the bare husks oflife held no allurement; he was one of that virile, human type thatrejects the doctrine of sacrifice, denial, and self-repression in thislife for the greater glory of God and man's promise of a reward inanother life, of which we wot but little and that little notscientifically authenticated. He wanted the great, all-compelling,omnipotent Present, with its gifts that he could clutch in his fiercehands or draw to his hungry heart. To hell with the future. Hereflected that misers permit their thoughts to dwell upon it and dierich and despised, leaving to the apostles of the Present theenjoyment of the fruits of a foolish sacrifice.

  "She came back. I know she did," he mumbled, as he groped his waythrough the dark of the drying-yard. "I'm sick. I must see her andtell her to wait until I'm well. The damned dirty world can do what itjolly well pleases to me, but I'll protect her from it. I will--byGod!"

  He emerged into the open fields beyond whi
ch lay the Sawdust Pile,snuggled down on the beach. The Brent cottage was visible in the dimstarlight, and he observed that there was no light in the window;nevertheless, his high faith did not falter. He pressed on, althougheach step was the product of an effort, mental and physical. His legswere heavy and dragged, as if he wore upon, his logger's boots thethick, leaden soles of a deep-sea diver.

  At the gate, he leaned and rested for a few minutes, then entered thedeserted yard and rapped at the front door; but his summons bringingno response, he staggered round to the back door and repeated it. Hewaited half a minute and then banged furiously with his fist upon thedoor-panel. Still receiving no response, he seized the knob and shookthe door until the little house appeared to rattle from cellar tocupola.

  "Nan! Nan! Where are you?" he called. "It is I--Donald. Answer me,Nan. I know you haven't gone away. You wouldn't! Please answer me,Nan!"

  But the only sound he heard was the labored pumping of his own heartand the swish of the wavelets against the timbered buttress of theSawdust Pile. The conviction slowly came to his torpid brain that hewas seeking admittance to a deserted house, and he leaned against thedoor and fought for control of himself. Presently, like a strickenanimal, he went slowly and uncertainly away in the direction whence hehad come.

  * * * * *

  Andrew Daney had put out the cat and wound the clock and was about toascend to his chamber (now, alas, reoccupied by Mrs. Daney, upon whomthe news of Nan's departure had descended like a gentle rainfall overa hitherto arid district) when he heard slow footsteps on his frontveranda. Upon going to the door and peering out, he was amazed to seeDonald McKaye standing just outside.

  "Well, bless my soul!" Daney declared. "So it's you Donald. Come in,lad; come in."

  Donald shook his head.

  "No, I've only come to stay a minute, Mr. Daney. Thank you, sir. I--Inotice you're running a light track from the drying-yard down to theSawdust Pile. Stumbled over it in the dark a few minutes ago, and I--"He essayed a ghastly smile, for he desired to remove the sting fromthe gentle rebuke he purposed giving the general manger--"couldn'tseem to remember having ordered that track--or--suggesting that it belaid."

  "Quite so, Donald; quite so," Daney answered. "I did it on my owninitiative. Nan Brent has abandoned the Sawdust Pile--moved away fromPort Agnew, you know; so I decided to extend the drying-yard, andsquat on the Sawdust Pile before some undesirable took possession."

  "Hm-m-m! I see. Well, suppose Nan takes a notion to return to PortAgnew, Mr. Daney. She'll find our drying-yard something of a nuisance,will she not?"

  "Oh, but she's not coming back," Daney assured him, with all theconfidence of one free from the slightest doubt on the subject.

  "She might. I could see rather dimly into the kitchen and it appearsMiss Brent left her little home furnished."

  "Yes, she did, Donald. I believe she just turned the key in the lockand went away."

  "Know where she went, Mr. Daney?"

  "No. She didn't even leave a forwarding address for her mail."

  The young laird of Tyee lurched up to Mr. Daney and laid a heavy handon the older man's shoulder.

  "How do you know that?" he demanded, and there was a growl in hisvoice. "Has Mrs. Daney been asking the postmaster?"

  Mr. Daney saw that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in for a badfive minutes or more. His youthful superior's face was white andbeaded with perspiration. Daney had a suspicion that Donald had had adrink or two.

  "There has been no gossip, Donald," he answered crisply. "Get thatnotion out of your head. I would protect you from gossip, for I thinkI know my duty to the McKayes. I learned that lesson a long time ago,"he added, with spirit.

  "You haven't answered my question, Mr. Daney," Donald persisted.

  "I shall. I know, because she told me herself." Mr. Daney had notintended that Donald should ever discover that he had had an interviewwith Nan Brent, but his veracity had, for the moment, appeared to himto be questioned by his superior, and he was too truthful, toothoroughly honest to attempt now to protect his reputation fortruth-telling by uttering a small fib, albeit he squirmed inwardly atthe terrible necessity for such integrity.

  "Ah! Then Nan called upon you again?"

  Mr. Daney sighed.

  "No, I called upon her."

  "With reference to what?"

  "To settle with her for the loss of the Brutus."

  "When did you lose the Brutus."

  Mr. Daney pulled at his ear, gazed at the porch light, rubbed hisAdam's apple, and gave the exact date.

  "What happened to the Brutus?"

  "She just disappeared, Donald. She was tied up alongside the barge--"

  The heavy hand on Mr. Daney's shoulder tightened a little. Donald wasmerely holding fast to the general manager in order to stay on hisfeet, but Mr. Daney credited him with being the victim of risinganger.

  "When did Nan leave Port Agnew, Mr. Daney?"

  "Let me see, Donald." Mr. Daney tugged at his beard. "Why, she lefttwo weeks ago yesterday. Yes; she left on the nineteenth."

  "When did you settle with her for the loss of the Brutus?"

  "On the sixteenth," Daney answered glibly.

  "How much?"

  "Twenty-five hundred dollars. It was more than the Brutus was worth,but I disliked to appear niggardly in the matter, Donald. I knew youand your father would approve whatever sum I settled for--and the lossof the little boat provided a nice opportunity for generosity withouthurting the girl's pride."

  "Yes--thank you, Mr. Daney. That was kind and thoughtful of you."Donald spoke the words slowly, as if he searched his brain carefullyfor each word and then had to coax his tongue into speaking it. "Yousettled, then, two days after the boat disappeared. Fast work. Nobodyup here would steal the boat. Too much distance between ports--runshort of gasoline, you know, on her limited tank capacity--and ifanybody had purchased cased gasoline around here to load on deck,you'd know of it. Hard to conceal or disguise a forty-foot boat, too."His fingers closed like steel nippers over Mr. Daney's shoulder."Where did you hide the boat, Mr. Daney? Answer me. I'll not betrifled with."

  "I scuttled her--if you must have the truth."

  "I knew you wouldn't lie to me. On whose orders, Mr. Daney? Myfather's?"

  "No, sir; it was my own idea." Daney's face was white with mental andphysical distress and red with confusion, by turns. His shoulder wasnumb.

  "Why?"

  "I figured that if the girl had some money to make a new startelsewhere, she'd leave Port Agnew, which would be best for allconcerned."

  "Why, Andrew Daney, you old hero! Cost you something to confess that,didn't it? Well--I guessed you or my father had induced her to go, soI concluded to start the investigation with you," He passed his handover his white dripping brow before resuming what he had to say. "TheTyee Lumber Company isn't equipped to carry on its pay-roll Mr. DonaldMcKaye and the man who interferes in his personal affair, even thoughactuated by a kindly interest. You rip up that track you're laying andleave Nan's home alone. Then you clean up your desk and hand me yourresignation. I'm sick--and your damned interference hurts. Sorry; butyou must go. Understand? Nan's coming back--understand? Comingback--devilish hot night--for this time of year, isn't it? Man, I'mburning up."

  It came to Mr. Daney that the young laird was acting in a mostpeculiar manner. Also, he was talking that way. Consequently, and whatwith the distress of being dismissed from the McKaye service in suchcavalier fashion, the general manager decided to twist out from underthat terrible grasp on his shoulder.

  Instantly, Donald released from this support, swayed and clutchedgropingly for Mr. Daney's person.

  "Dizzy," he panted. "Head's on strike. Mr. Daney, where the devil areyou? Don't run away from me. You damned old muddler, if I get my handson you I'll pick you apart--yes, I will--to see--what makes you go.You did it, Yes, you did--even if you're too stupidly honest--to lieabout it. Glad of that, though, Mr. Daney. Hate liars and interferingduffers. A
h--the cold-blooded calculation of it--took advantage of herpoverty. She's gone--nobody knows--May God damn your soul to thedeepest hell--Where are you? I'll kill you--no, no; forgive me,sir--Yes, you've been faithful, and you're an old employe--I wish youa very pleasant good-evening, sir."

  He stepped gingerly down the three wide stairs, pitched forward, andmeasured his length in a bed of pansies. Mr. Daney came down, struck amatch, and looked at his white face. Donald was apparentlyunconscious; so Mr. Daney knelt, placed his inquisitive nose close tothe partly open lips, and sniffed. Then he swore his chiefest oath.

  "Hell's hells and panther-tracks! He isn't drunk. He's sick."

  Fifteen minutes later, the young Laird of Port Agnew reposed in thebest room of his own hospital, and Andrew Daney was risking his lifemotoring at top speed up the cliff road to The Dreamerie with bad newsfor old Hector. Mrs. McKaye and the girls had retired but The Lairdwas reading in the living-room when Daney entered unannounced.

  Old Hector looked up at his general manager from under his white,shaggy brow.

  "Ye, Andrew," he saluted the latter gently, "I see by your face it'snot welcome news you bring. Out with it, man."

  So Andrew came "out with it," omitting no detail, and at theconclusion of his recital, the old man wagged his head to emphasizehis comprehension.

  "My son is not a dull man by any means," he said presently. "He knowswhat he knows--a man sure of himself always--and oh, Andrew man,because of the brain of him and the sweet soul of him, it breaks myheart to give pain to him. And what does the doctor say?"

  "From a cursory examination he suspects typhoid fever."

  "Ah, that's bad, bad, Andrew."

  "The boy has the strength of a Hercules, sir. He'll beat through,never fear."

  "Well, he'll not die to-night, at any rate," old Hector answered, "andI can do no good puttering round the hospital to-night. Neither wouldI alarm his mother and the girls. Send for the best medical brains inthe country, Andrew, and don't quibble at the cost. Pay them what theyask. 'Twill be cheap enough if they save him. Good-night, Andrew, andthank you kindly." He stood up and laid his hand affectionately uponthe shoulder of his faithful servant and walked with him thus to thedoor. "My good Andrew," he murmured, and propelled the general managergently outside, "there's no need to worry over the dismissal. When thelad's well, he'll rescind his order, so, in the meantime, do not leaveus."

  "But--if he shouldn't rescind it?" Daney pleaded anxiously. Althoughhe was comfortably fixed with this world's goods and had long sinceceased to work for monetary reward, the Tyee Lumber Company was,nevertheless, part of his life, and to be dismissed from its servicewas akin to having some very necessary part of him amputated.

  "Tush, man; tush! Don't be building a mare's nest," old Hectoranswered and closed the door upon him. For The Laird was losingcontrol of himself and he could not bear that any human eye shouldgaze upon his weakness.