XXII
Caleb Brent's funeral was the apotheosis of simplicity. Perhaps ascore of the old sailor's friends and neighbors attended, and therewere, perhaps, half a dozen women--motherly old souls who had knownNan intimately in the days when she associated with their daughtersand who felt in the presence of death a curious unbending of a curiousand indefinable hostility. Sam Carew, arrayed in the conventionalhabiliments of his profession, stood against the wall and closed hiseyes piously when Hector McKaye, standing beside old Caleb, spokebriefly and kindly of the departed and with a rough eloquence thatstirred none present--not even Nan, who, up to that moment, entirelyignorant of The Laird's intention, could only gaze at him, amazed andincredulous--more than it stirred The Laird himself. The sonorous andbeautiful lines of the burial service took on an added beauty anddignity as he read them, for The Laird believed! And when he hadfinished reading the service, he looked up, and his kind gaze laygently on Nan Brent as he said:
"My friends, we will say a wee bit prayer for Caleb wi' all theearnestness of our hearts. O Lorrd, now that yon sailor has towed outon his last long cruise, we pray thee to gie him a guid pilot--aye, anarchangel, for he was ever an honest man and brave--to guide him tothy mansion. Forgie him his trespasses and in thy great mercy grantcomfort to this poor bairn he leaves behind. And thine shall be thehonor and the glory, forever and ever. Amen!"
None present, except Donald, realized the earnestness of that prayer,for, as always under the stress of deep emotion, The Laird had grownScotchy. Mrs. Tingley, a kindly little soul who had felt it herChristian duty to be present, moved over to the little organ, and Nan,conspicuous in a four-year-old tailored suit and a black sailor-hat,rose calmly from her seat and stood beside the minister's wife. For amoment, her glance strayed over the little audience. Then shesang--not a hymn, but just a little song her father had alwaysliked--the haunting, dignified melody that has been set to Stevenson's"Requiem."
Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me: _Here he lies where he longed to be. Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter, home from the hill_.
The Laird, watching her narrowly, realized the effort it was costingher; yet her glorious voice did not break or quiver once. "Youwonderful, wonderful woman!" he thought, moved to a high pitch ofadmiration for her independence and her flagrant flaunting oftradition, "What a wife for my boy--what a mother for my grandson--ifyou hadn't spoiled it all!"
She rode to the cemetery in The Laird's car with The Laird, Donald,and Mrs. Tingley. Leaning on Donald's arm, she watched them hide oldCaleb beneath the flowers from the gardens of The Dreamerie; then TheLaird read the service at the grave and they returned to the SawdustPile, where Nan's child (he had been left at home in charge of a nursefrom the Tyee Lumber Company's hospital) experienced more or lessdifficulty deciding whether Donald or The Laird was his father.
The Laird now considered his duty to Caleb Brent accomplished. Heremained at the Sawdust Pile a period barely sufficient for Nan toexpress her sense of obligation.
"In a month, my dear girl," he whispered, as he took her hand, "you'llhave had time to adjust yourself and decide on the future. Then we'llhave a little talk."
She smiled bravely up at him through misty eyes and shook her head.She read his thoughts far better than he knew.
Father and son repaired to the private office at the mill, and TheLaird seated himself in his old swivel chair.
"Now then, lad," he demanded, "have I been a good sport?"
"You have, indeed, father! I'm grateful to you."
"You needn't be. I wouldn't have missed that funeral for considerable.That girl can sing like an angel, and, man, the courage of her! 'Twassweet of her, singing to old Caleb like that, but I much mistake ifshe won't be talked about for it. 'Twill be said she's heartless." Hehanded his son a cigar and snipped the end off one for himself. "We'llbe needing the Sawdust Pile now for a drying-yard," he announcedcomplacently.
"You mean----"
"I mean, my son, that you're dreaming of the impossible, and that it'stime for you to wake up. I want no row about it. I can't bear to hearyour mother and sisters carrying on longer. I'll never get overthinking what a pity it is that girl is damaged goods. She must not bewife to son of mine."
The young laird of Tyee bowed his head.
"I can't give her up, father," he murmured. "By God, I can't!"
"There can be no happiness without honor, and you'll not be the firstto make our name a jest in the mouths of Port Agnew. You will writeher and tell her of my decision; if you do not wish to, then I shalldo it for you. Trust her to understand and not hold it against you.And it is my wish that you should not see her again. She must be caredfor, but when that time comes, I shall attend to it; you know me wellenough to realize I'll do that well." He laid his hand tenderly on theyoung man's shoulder. "This is your first love, my son. Time and hardwork will help you forget--and I'll wait for my grandson."
"And if I should not agree to this--what?"
"Obey me for a month--and then ask me that question if you will.I'm--I'm a bit unprepared for an answer on such short notice."
Donald bowed his head.
"Very well, sir. I'll think it over for a month--on one condition."
"Thank you, my son," said The Laird of Tyee. "And what is thecondition?"
"Let mother and the girls go to Seattle or Honolulu or Shanghai orsome other seaport--anywhere, provided they're not at The Dreameriewhen I return to Port Agnew. I'm going to spend that damnable month inthe woods, week-ends and all, and wrestle with this problem."
Old Hector smiled a small smile.
"I'm an old ass," he declared. "Have it your own way, only--by thegods, I ought to teach them sense. I've spoiled them, and I ought tounspoil them. They drive me crazy, much as I love them."
* * * * *
The Laird went home that afternoon lighter of heart than he had beenfor a month. He told himself that his firm stand with Donald hadrather staggered that young man, and that a month of reflection, farfrom the disturbing influence of Nan Brent's magnetic presence, wouldinduce Donald to adopt a sensible course.