Part 12 (1/2)
”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.”