XXXV
Nan did not remain at the hospital more than fifteen minutes. She wasill at ease there; it was no comfort to her to gaze upon the pallid,wasted face of the man she loved when she realized that, by herpresence here, she was constituting herself a party to aheart-breaking swindle, and must deny herself the joy of gazing uponthat same beloved countenance when, later, it should be glowing withhealth and youth and high hopes. He was too weak to speak more than afew words to her. The faintest imaginable pressure of his handanswered the pressure of hers. It appeared to be a tremendous effortfor him to open his eyes and look up at her. When, however, he hadsatisfied his swimming senses that she was really there in the flesh,he murmured:
"You'll not--run away--again? Promise?"
"I promise, dear. The next time I leave Port Agnew, I'll say good-by."
"You must not--leave--again. Promise?"
She knew his life might be the reward of a kindly lie; so she told it,bravely and without hesitation. Was she not there for that purpose?
"Good--news! If I get--well, will you--marry me, Nan?" She choked upthen; nevertheless, she nodded.
"More good--news! Wait for me--Sawdust Pile--sweetheart."
She interpreted this as a dismissal, and gratefully made her exit.From the hospital office she telephoned orders to the butcher, thebaker, the grocer, and the milkman, forcibly separated little Don fromthe nurse, and walked down through Port Agnew to the Sawdust Pile.
The old-fashioned garden welcomed her with its fragrance; her cat,which she had been unable to give away and had not the heart todestroy at the time of her departure, came to the little white gate tomeet her and rubbed against her, purring contentedly--apparently nonethe worse for a month of vagabondage and richer by a litter of kittensthat blinked at Nan from under the kitchen stoop. From across theBight of Tyee, the morning breeze brought her the grateful odor of thesea, while the white sea-gulls, prinking themselves on the pile-buttsat the outer edge of the Sawdust Pile, raised raucous cries at herapproach and hopped toward her in anticipation of the scraps she hadbeen wont to toss them. She resurrected the key from its hiding-placeunder the eaves, and her hot tears fell so fast that it was withdifficulty she could insert it in the door. Poor derelict on the seaof life, she had gone out with the ebb and had been swept back on theflood, to bob around for a little while in the cross-currents of humandestinies before going out again with the ebb.
The air in the little house was hot and fetid; so she threw open thedoors and windows. Dust had accumulated everywhere and, with a certaindetachment, she noted, even in her distress, that she had gone awaywithout closing the great square piano. She ran her fingers over thedusty keys and brought forth a few, sonorous chords; then she observedthat the little, ancient, half-portion grandfather's clock had died ofinanition; so she made a mental note to listen for the twelve-o'clockwhistle on the Tyee mill and set the clock by it. The spigot over thekitchen sink was leaking a little, and it occurred to her, in the samecurious detached way, that it needed a new gasket.
She sighed. Once more, in this silent little house so fraught withhappy memories, the old burden of existence was bearing upon her--thefeeling that she was in jail. For a month she had been free--free towalk the streets, to look in shop windows, to seek a livelihood andtalk to other human beings without that terrible feeling that, nomatter how pleasant they might appear to be, their eyes were secretlyappraising her--that they were _thinking_. And now to be forced toabandon that freedom--
"Oh, well! It can't last forever," she soliloquized, and, blinkingaway her tears, she proceeded to change into a house dress and put herlittle home in order. Presently, the local expressman arrived with herbaggage and was followed by sundry youths bearing sundry provisions;at twelve-thirty, when she and young Don sat down to the luncheon shehad prepared, her flight to New York and return appeared singularlyunreal, like the memory of a dream.
She visited the hospital next day, choosing an hour when Port Agnewwas at its evening meal and too preoccupied with that important detailto note her coming and going. She returned to her home under cover ofdarkness.
At the hospital, she had received a favorable report of the patient'sprogress. His physicians were distinctly encouraged. Nan looked in onher lover for a minute, and then hurried away on the plea that herbaby was locked in at the Sawdust Pile, in the absence of some one tocare for him; she had the usual maternal presentiment that he wasplaying with matches.
As she was going out she met The Laird and Mrs. McKaye coming in. OldHector lifted his hat and said quite heartily:
"How do you do, my dear girl. The news this evening is mostencouraging--thanks to you, I'm told--so we are permitted to seeDonald for five minutes. Nellie, my dear, you remember little NanBrent, do you not?"
Mrs. McKaye's handsome mouth contracted in a small, automatic smilethat did not extend to her eyes. She acknowledged Nan's "Good-evening,Mrs. McKaye," with a brief nod, and again favored the girl withanother property smile, between the coming and going of which herteeth flashed with the swiftness of the opening and closing of acamera shutter.
"We are _so_ grateful to you, Miss Brent," she murmured. And then,womanlike, her alert brown eyes, starting their appraisal at Nan'sshoes, roved swiftly and calmly upward, noting every item of herdress, every soft seductive curve of her healthy young body. Herglance came to a rest on the girl's face, and for the space of severalseconds they looked at each other frankly while old Hector was saying:
"Aye, grateful indeed, Nan. We shall never be out of your debt. Thereare times when a kindness and a sacrifice are all the more welcomebecause unexpected, and we had no right to expect this of you. Godbless you, my dear, and remember--I am always your friend."
"Yes, indeed," his wife murmured, in a voice that, lacking hisenthusiasm, conveyed to Nan the information that The Laird spoke forhimself. She tugged gently at her husband's arm; again the automaticsmile; with a cool: "Good-night, Miss Brent. Thank you again--_so_much," she propelled The Laird toward the hospital entrance. He obeyedpromptly, glad to escape a situation that was painful to him, for hehad realized that which his wife did not credit him with havingsufficiently acute perception to realize--to-wit, that his wife'scamouflage was somewhat frayed and poorly manufactured. _She had notplayed the game with him_. It would have cost her nothing to have beenas kindly and sincere as he had been toward this unfortunate girl;nevertheless, while he had sensed her deficiency, his wife had carriedthe affair off so well that he could not advance a sound argument toconvince her of it. So he merely remarked dryly as the hospital doorclosed behind them:
"Nellie, I'm going to propound a conundrum for you. Why did yourgreeting of the Brent girl remind me of that Louis Quinze tapestry forwhich you paid sixty thousand francs the last time you were abroad?"
"I loathe conundrums, Hector," she replied coldly. "I do not care toguess the answer."
"The answer is: Not quite genuine," he retorted mildly, and said nomore about it.
After that visit, Nan went no more to the hospital. She had metDonald's mother for the first time in four years and had been greetedas "Miss Brent," although in an elder day when, as a child, Donald hadbrought her to The Dreamerie to visit his mother and sisters, andlater when she had sung in the local Presbyterian choir, Mrs. McKayeand her daughters had been wont to greet her as "Nan." The girl didnot relish the prospect of facing again that camera-shutter smile andshe shrank with the utmost distress from a chance meeting at thehospital with Elizabeth or Jane McKaye. As for The Laird, while shenever felt ill at ease in his presence, still she preferred to meethim as infrequently as possible. As a result of this decision, shewrote Andrew Daney, and after explaining to him what she intendeddoing and why, asked him if he would not send some trustworthy personto her every evening with a report of Donald's progress.
Accordingly, Dirty Dan O'Leary, hat in hand and greatly embarrassed,presented himself at the Sawdust Pile the following evening undercover of darkness, and handed her a note from Daney. Donald'scondition was
continuing to improve. For his services, Mr. O'Leary wasduly thanked and given a bouquet from Nan's old-fashioned garden forpresentation to the invalid. Tucked away in the heart of it was a tinyenvelop that enclosed a message of love and cheer.
Dirty Dan was thrilled to think that he had been selected as theintermediary in this secret romance. Clasping the bouquet in his grimyleft hand, he bowed low and placed his equally grimy right in theregion of his umbilicus.
"Me hearrt's wit' ye, agra," he declared. "Sure 'tis to the divil an'back agin I'd be the proud man to go, if 'twould be a favor to ye,Miss Brint."
"I know you would, Dan," she agreed, tactfully setting the wild rascalat his ease when addressing him by his Christian name. "I know whatyou did for Mr. Donald that night. I think you're very, verywonderful. I haven't had an opportunity heretofore to tell you howgrateful I am to you for saving him."
Here was a mystery! Mr. O'Leary in his Sunday clothes bound forIreland resembled Dirty Dan O'Leary in the raiment of a lumberjack,his wild hair no longer controlled by judicious applications of pomadeand his mustache now--alas--returned to its original state of neglect,as a butterfly resembles a caterpillar. Without pausing to considerthis, Dirty Dan, taking the license of a more or less privilegedcharacter, queried impudently:
"An' are ye glad they sint for ye to come back?"
She decided that Mr. O'Leary was inclined to be familiar; so shemerely looked at him and her cool glance chilled him.
"Becuz if ye are," he continued, embarrassed, "ye have me to thank forit. 'Tis meself that knows a thing or two wit'out bein' told. Have yenot been surprised that they knew so well where to find ye whin theywanted ye?"
She stared at him in frank amazement.
"Yes, I have been tremendously interested in learning the secret oftheir marvelous perspicacity."
"I supplied Misther Daney wit' your address, allanah."
"How did you know it? Did The Laird--"
"He did not. I did it all be mesel'. Ah, 'tis the romantic divil I am,Miss Brint. Sure I got a notion ye were runnin' away an' says I tomeself, says I: 'I don't like this idjee at all, at all. Thesemysterious disappearances are always leadin' to throuble.' Sure, whatif somebody should die an' lave ye a fortun'? What good would it be toye if nobody could find ye? An' in back o' that agin," he assured hercunningly, "I realized what a popular laddy buck I'd be wit' MistherDonald if I knew what he didn't know but was wishful o' knowin'?"
"But how did you procure my address in New York?" she demanded.
"Now, I'm a wise man, but if I towld ye that, ye'd be as wise as I am.An' since 'twould break me heart to think anybody in Port Agnew couldbe as wise as mesel', ye'll have to excuse me from blatherin' all Iknow."
"Oh, but you must tell me, Dan. There are reasons why I should know,and you wouldn't refuse to set my mind at ease, would you?"
Dirty Dan grinned and played his ace.
"If ye'll sing 'The Low-backed Car' an' 'She Moved Through the Fair'I'll tell ye," he promised. "Sure I listened to ye the night o' thebattle, an' so close to death was I, sure I fought 'twas an angel fromglory singing'. Troth, I did."
She sat down, laughing, at the antiquated piano, and sang him thesongs he loved; then, because she owed him a great debt she sang forhim "Kathleen Mavourneen," "Pretty Molly Brannigan," "The Harp ThatOnce Thro' Tara's Halls," and "Killarney." Dan stood just outside thekitchen door, not presuming to enter, and when the last song wasfinished, he had tears in his piggy little eyes; so he fled with theposies, nor tarried to thank her and wish her a pleasant good-night.Neither did he keep his promise by telling her how he came to know herNew York address.
"Let me hear anny blackguard mintion that one's name wit' a lack o'respect," Mr. O'Leary breathed, as he crossed the vacant lots, "an'I'll break the back o' him in two halves! Whirro-o-o! Sure I'd make amummy out o' him!"
Kindred of the Dust Page 34
