Part 13 (1/2)
She obeyed and employed her right hand, thus freed, in wiping the telltale tears from her sweet face.
”I have been lax in neighborly solicitude,” The Laird continued. ”I must send you over a supply of wood from the box factory. We have more waste than we can use in the furnaces. Is this your little man, Nan?
St.u.r.dy little chap, isn't he? Come here, bub, and let me heft you.”
He swung the child from the sands, and while pretending to consider carefully the infant's weight, he searched the cherubic countenance with a swift, appraising glance.
”Healthy little rascal,” he continued, and swung the child high in the air two or three times, smiling paternally as the latter screamed with delight. ”How do you like that, eh?” he demanded, as he set the boy down on the sand again.
”Dood!” the child replied, and gazing up at The Laird yearningly. ”Are you my daddy?”
But The Laird elected to disregard the pathetic query and busied himself gathering up the bundle of driftwood, nor did he permit his glance to rest upon Nan Brent's flushed and troubled face. Tucking the bundle under one arm and taking Nan's child on the other, he whistled to his dogs and set out for the Sawdust Pile, leaving the girl to follow behind him. He preceded her through the gate, tossed the driftwood on a small pile in the yard, and turned to hand her the ap.r.o.n.
”You are not altogether happy, poor girl!” he said kindly. ”I'm very sorry. I want the people in my town to be happy.”
”I shall grow accustomed to it, Mr. McKaye,” Nan answered. ”To-day, I am merely a little more depressed than usual. Thank you so much for carrying the wood. You are more than kind.”
His calm, inscrutable gray glance roved over her, noting her beauty and her sweetness, and the soul of him was troubled.
”Is it something you could confide in an old man?” he queried gently.
”You are much neglected, and I--I understand the thoughts that must come to you sometimes. Perhaps you would be happier elsewhere than in Port Agnew.”
”Perhaps,” she replied dully.
”If you could procure work--some profession to keep your mind off your troubles--I have some property in Tacoma--suburban lots with cottages on them.” The Laird grew confused and embarra.s.sed because of the thought that was in the back of his mind, and was expressing himself jerkily and in disconnected sentences. ”I do not mean--I do not offer charity, for I take it you have had enough insults--well, you and your father could occupy one of those cottages at whatever you think you could afford to pay, and I would be happy to advance you any funds you might need until you--could--that is, of course, you must get on your feet again, and you must have help--” He waved his hand. ”All this oppresses me.”
The remembrance of Mrs. Daney's interview with her prompted the girl to flash back at him.
”'Oppresses,' Mr. McKaye? Since when?”
He gazed upon her in frank admiration for her audacity and perspicacity.
”Yes,” he admitted slowly; ”I dare say I deserve that. Yet, mingled with that ulterior motive you have so unerringly discerned, there is a genuine, if belated, desire to be decently human. I think you realize that also.”
”I should be stupid and ungrateful did I not, Mr. McKaye. I am sorry I spoke just now as I did, but I could not bear--”
”To permit me to lay the flattering unction to my soul that I had gotten away with something, eh?” he laughed, much more at his ease, now that he realized how frank and yet how tactful she could be.
”It wasn't quite worthy of you--not because I might resent it, for I am n.o.body, but because you should have more faith in yourself and be above the possibility of disturbance at the hands--or rather, the tongues--of people who speak in whispers.” She came close to him suddenly and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, for she was speaking with profound earnestness. ”I am your debtor, Mr. McKaye, for that speech you found it so hard to make just now, and for past kindnesses from you and your son. I cannot accept your offer. I would like to, did my pride permit, and were it not for the fact that such happiness as is left to my father can only be found by the Bight of Tyee. So, while he lives I shall not desert him. As for your apprehensions”--she smiled tolerantly and whimsically--”though flattering to me, they are quite unnecessary, and I beg you rid your mind of them. I am--that which I am; yet I am more than I appear to be to some and I shall not wantonly or wilfully hurt you--or yours.”
The Laird of Tyee took in both of his the slim hand that rested so lightly on his sleeve--that dainty left hand with the long, delicate fingers and no wedding ring.
”My dear child,” he murmured, ”I feel more than I dare express.
Good-by and may G.o.d bless you and be good to you, for I fear the world will not.” He bowed with old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy over her hand and departed; yet such was his knowledge of life that now his soul was more deeply troubled than it had been since his unintentional eavesdropping on his manager's garrulous wife.
”What a woman!” he reflected. ”Brains, imagination, dignity, womanly pride, courage, beauty and--yes; I agree with Donald. Neither maid, wife nor widow is she--yet she is not, never has been, and never will be a woman without virtue. Ah, Donald, my son, she's a bonny la.s.s! For all her fall, she's not a common woman and my son is not a common man--I wonder--Oh, 'tis lies, lies, lies, and she's heard them and knows they're lies. Ah, my son, my son, with the hot blood of youth in you--you've a man's head and heart and a will of your own--Aye, she's sweet--that she is--I wonder!”
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