Part 21 (1/2)

The Laird elevated his eyebrows.

”'Yet?'” he repeated.

Donald flushed a little as he reiterated his statement with an emphatic nod.

”Why that reservation, my son?”

”Because, some day, Nan may be in position to prove herself that which I know her to be--a virtuous woman--and when that time comes, I'll marry her in spite of h.e.l.l and high water.”

Old Hector sighed. He was quite familiar with the fact that, while the records of the county clerk of Santa Clara County, California, indicated that a marriage license had been issued on a certain date to a certain man and one Nan Brent, of Port Agnew, Was.h.i.+ngton, there was no official record of a marriage between the two. The Reverend Mr.

Tingley's wife had sorrowfully imparted that information to Mrs.

McKaye, who had, in turn, informed old Hector, who had received the news with casual interest, little dreaming that he would ever have cause to remember it in later years. And The Laird was an old man, worldly-wise and of mature judgment. His soul wore the scars of human perfidy, and, because he could understand the weakness of the flesh, he had little confidence in its strength. Consequently, he dismissed now, with a wave of his hand, consideration of the possibility that Nan Brent would ever make a fitting mate for his son.

”It's nice of you to believe that, Donald. I would not destroy your faith in human nature, for human nature will destroy your faith in time, as it has destroyed mine. I'm afraid I'm a sort of doubting Thomas. I must see in order to believe; I must thrust my finger into the wound. I wonder if you realize that, even if this poor girl should, at some future time, be enabled to demonstrate her innocence of illicit love, she has been hopelessly smeared and will never, never, be quite able to clean herself.”

”It matters not if _I_ know she's a good woman. That is all sufficient. To h.e.l.l with what the world thinks! I'm going to take my happiness where I find it.”

”It may be a long wait, my son.”

”I will be patient, sir.”

”And, in the meantime, I shall be a doddering old man, without a grandson to sweeten the afternoon of my life, without a hope for seeing perpetuated all those things that I have considered worth while because I created them. Ah, Donald, lad, I'm afraid you're going to be cruel to your old father!”

”I have suffered with the thought that I might appear to be, dad. I have considered every phase of the situation; I was certain of the att.i.tude you would take, and I feel no resentment because you have taken it. Neither Nan nor I had contemplated the condition which confronts us. It happened--like that,” and Donald snapped his fingers.

”Now the knowledge of what we mean to each other makes the obstacles all the more heart-breaking. I have tried to wish, for your sake, that I hadn't spoken--that I had controlled myself, but, for some unfathomable reason, I cannot seem to work up a very healthy contrition. And I think, dad, this is going to cause me more suffering than it will you.”

A faint smile flitted across old Hector's stern face. Youth! Youth! It always thinks it knows!

”This affair is beyond consideration by the McKayes, Donald. It is utterly impossible! You must cease calling on the girl.”

”Why, father?”

”To give you my real reason would lead to endless argument in which you would oppose me with more or less sophistry that would be difficult to combat. In the end, we might lose our tempers. Let us say, therefore, that you must cease calling on the la.s.s because I desire it.”

”I'll never admit that I'm ashamed of her, for I am not!” his son burst forth pa.s.sionately.

”But people are watching you now--talking about you. Man, do ye not ken you're your father's son?” A faint note of pa.s.sion had crept into The Laird's tones; under the stress of it, his faint Scotch brogue increased perceptibly. He had tried gentle argument, and he knew he had failed; in his desperation, he decided to invoke his authority as the head of his clan. ”I forbid you!” he cried firmly, and slapped the huge leather arm of his chair. ”I charge you, by the blood that's in you, not to bring disgrace upon my house!”

A slight mistiness which Donald, with swelling heart, had noted in his father's eyes a few moments before was now gone. They flashed like naked claymores in the glance that Andrew Daney once had so aptly described to his wife.

For the s.p.a.ce of ten seconds, father and son looked into each other's soul and therein each read the other's answer. There could be no surrender.

”You have bred a man, sir, not a mollycoddle,” said the young laird quietly. ”I think we understand each other.” He rose, drew the old man out of his chair, and threw a great arm across the latter's shoulders.

”Good-night, sir,” he murmured humbly, and squeezed the old shoulders a little.

The Laird bowed his head but did not answer. He dared not trust himself to do so. Thus Donald left him, standing in the middle of the room, with bowed head a trifle to one side, as if old Hector listened for advice from some unseen presence. The Laird of Tyee had thought he had long since plumbed the heights and depths of the joys and sorrows of fatherhood. The tears came presently.

A streak of moonlight filtered into the room as the moon sank in the sea and augmented the silver in a head that rested on two clasped hands, while Hector McKaye, kneeling beside his chair, prayed to his stern Presbyterian G.o.d once more to save his son from the folly of his love.