Kindred of the Dust Part 19

His tale completed, Donald happened to glance toward Nan. She was regarding him with shining eyes.

"Donald," she declared, "it's a tremendous pity you haven't a boy of your own. You're just naturally intended for fatherhood."

He grinned.

"My father has been hinting rather broadly that a grandson would be the very last thing on earth to make him angry. He desires to see the name and the breed and the business in a fair way of perpetuation before he pa.s.ses on."

"That is the way of all flesh, Donald."

"I wish it were not his way. My inability to comply with his desires isn't going to render dad or me any happier."

"Dear old boy, what a frightful predicament you're in!" she murmured sympathetically. "I wish I could be quite certain you aren't really in love with me, Donald."

"Life would be far rosier for all concerned if I were quite certain I was mistaking an old and exalted friendship for true love. But I'm not. You're the one woman in the world for me, and if I cannot have you, I'll have none other--h.e.l.lo! Weeping has made this young fellow heavy-lidded, or else my fiction has bored him, for he's nodding."

"It's time for his afternoon nap, Donald." She removed the sleepy tot from his arms and carried him away to his crib. When she returned, she resumed her task of preparing dinner.

"Nan," Donald queried suddenly, "have I the right to ask you the name of the man who fathered that child?"

"Yes," she answered soberly; "you have. I wish, however, that you would not ask me. I should have to decline to answer you."

"Well, then, I'll not ask. Nevertheless, it would interest me mightily to know why you protect him."

"I am not at all desirous of protecting him, Donald. I am merely striving to protect his legal wife. His marriage to me was bigamous; he undertook the task of leading a dual married life, and, when I discovered it, I left him."

"But are you certain he married you?"

"We went through a marriage ceremony which, at the time, I regarded as quite genuine. Of course, since it wasn't legal, it leaves me in the status of an unmarried woman."

"So I understood from your father. Where did this ceremony take place?"

"In San Francisco." She came over, sat down beside him, and took one of his hard, big hands in both of hers. "I'm going to tell you as much as I dare," she informed him soberly. "You have a right to know, and you're too nice to ask questions. So I'll not leave you to the agonies of doubt and curiosity. You see, honey dear, father Brent wanted me to have vocal and piano lessons, and to do that I had to go to Seattle once a week, and the railroad-fare, in addition to the cost of the lessons, was prohibitive until your father was good enough to secure me a position in the railroad-agent's office in Port Agnew. Of course, after I became an employe of the railroad company, I could travel on a pa.s.s, so I used to go up to Seattle every Sat.u.r.day, leaving here on the morning train. Your father arranged matters in some way so that I worked but five days a week."

"Naturally. Dad's a pretty heavy shipper over the line."

"I would receive my lessons late Sat.u.r.day afternoons, stay overnight with a friend of mine, and return to Port Agnew on Sunday. _He_ used to board the train at--well, the name of the station doesn't matter--every Sat.u.r.day, and one day we got acquainted, quite by accident as it were. Our train ran through an open switch and collided with the rear end of a freight; there was considerable excitement, and everybody spoke to everybody else, and after that it didn't appear that we were strangers. The next Sat.u.r.day, when he boarded the train, he sat down in the same seat with me and asked permission to introduce himself. He was very nice, and his manners were beautiful; he didn't act in the least like a man who desired to 'make a mash.' Finally, one day, he asked me to have dinner with him in Seattle, and I accepted. I think that was because I'd never been in a fashionable restaurant in all my life. After dinner, he escorted me to the studio, and on Sunday morning we took the same train home again. He was such good company and such a jolly, worldly fellow--so thoughtful and deferential! Can't you realize, Donald, how he must have appealed to a little country goose like me?

"Well, finally, daddy Brent learned that Signor Moretti, a tenor who had retired from grand opera, had opened a studio in San Francisco. We both wanted Moretti to pa.s.s on my voice, but we couldn't afford the expense of a journey to San Francisco for two, so daddy sent me alone.

I wrote--that man about our plans, and told him the name of the steamer I was sailing on. Your father gave me a pa.s.sage on one of his steam-schooners, and when we got to the dock in San Francisco--"

"_He_ was there, eh? Came down by train and beat the steamer in."

Donald nodded his comprehension. "What did Moretti say about your voice?"

"The usual thing. My Seattle teacher had almost ruined my voice, he declared, but, for all that, he was very enthusiastic and promised me a career within five years if I would place myself unreservedly in his hands. Of course, we couldn't afford such an expensive career, and the realization that I had to forego even the special inducements Signor Moretti was generous enough to make me quite broke my heart. When I told _him_ about it--we were engaged by that time--he suggested that we get married immediately, in order that I might reside with him in San Francisco and study under Moretti. So we motored out into the country one day and were married at San Jose. He asked me to keep our marriage secret on account of some clause in his father's will, but I insisted upon my right to tell daddy Brent. Poor old dear! My marriage was such a shock to him; but he agreed with me that it was all for the best--"

"Well, I was quite happy for three months. My husband's business interests necessitated very frequent trips North--"

"What business was he in, Nan?"

"That is immaterial," she evaded him. "Presently, Signer Moretti contracted a severe cold and closed his studio for a month. My husband--I suppose I must call him that to identify him when I refer to him--had just gone North on one of his frequent trips, and since he always kept me generously supplied with money, I decided suddenly to take advantage of Moretti's absence to run up to Port Agnew and visit my father.

"In Seattle, as I alighted from the train, I saw my husband in the station with another woman. I recognized her. She was a friend of mine--a very dear, kind, thoughtful friend of several years'

standing--the only woman friend I had in the world. I loved her dearly; you will understand when I tell you that she had frequently gone out of her way to be kind to me. It struck me as strange that he had never admitted knowing her, although frequently he had heard me speak of her. While I stood pondering the situation, he took her in his arms and kissed her good-by and boarded the train without seeing me. I slipped out of the station without having been seen by either of them; but while I was waiting for a taxicab, my friend came out of the station, saw me, and rushed up to greet me. It developed, in the course of our conversation following the usual commonplaces of greeting, that she had been down to the station to see her husband off on the train for San Francisco."

Donald whistled softly.

"How did you manage to get away with it, Nan?" he demanded incredulously.

"All my life I have been used to doing without things," she replied simply. "I suppose that helped a little. The shock was not so abrupt that I lost my presence of mind; you see, I had had a few minutes to adjust myself after seeing him kiss her in the station--and just then the taxicab came up and I escaped. Then I came home to the Sawdust Pile. I wrote him, of course, and sent the letter by registered mail, in order to make certain he would receive it. He did, but he did not answer. There was no reason why he should, for he was quite safe. I had a.s.sured him there was no necessity for worry on my account."

"Of all the crazy, fool things for you to do!" Donald cried sharply.

"Why under the canopy did you deem it necessary to sacrifice yourself for him? Surely you did not love him--"

"I'm afraid I never loved him," she interrupted. "I--I thought I did, although, if he hadn't been away so frequently after our marriage, I would have learned to love him dearly, I think."

"Just human nature," Donald suggested. "Something akin to what trapshooters and golfers call a mental hazard."

"Of course he married me under an a.s.sumed name, Donald."

"Did you ever see a marriage certificate?"

"Oh, yes; I had to sign it in the presence of the minister."

Donald was relieved.

"Then, you great goose of a girl, you can clear your record any time you desire. The minister forwarded the marriage certificate to the state capital, and it is registered there with the State Board of Health. After registration, it was returned to the minister whose signature appeared on the certificate as the officiating clergyman.

The minister undoubtedly returned the certificate to your husband."

"I never saw it again."

"What if you did not? You can procure a certified copy from the record in the county-clerk's office or from the records of the State Board of Health. Marriage records, old dear, are fairly well protected in our day and generation."

"I wrote to the State Board of Health at Sacramento. There is no record of my marriage there."

"That's strange. Why didn't you write the county clerk, of the county in which the license was issued?"

She smiled at him.

"I did. I had to, you know. My honor was at stake. The license was issued in Santa Clara County."

"Well, it will be a simple matter to comb the list of ministers until we find the one that tied the knot. A certified copy of the marriage license, with a sworn affidavit by the officiating clergyman--"

"The officiating clergyman is dead. A private detective agency in San Francisco discovered that for us."

"But couldn't you cover your tracks, Nan? Under the circ.u.mstances, a lie--any kind of deceit to save your good name--would have been pardonable."

"I couldn't help being smirched. Remember, my father was the only person in Port Agnew who knew I had been married; he heeded my request and kept the secret. Suddenly I returned home with a tale of marriage in antic.i.p.ation of my ability to prove it. In that I failed. Presently my baby was born. People wondered who my husband was, and where he kept himself; some of the extremely curious had the hardihood to come here and question me. Was my husband dead? Of course not. Had I fibbed and told them he was, they would have asked when and where and the nature of the disease that carried him off. Was I divorced? Again I was confronted with the necessity for telling the truth, because a lie could be proved. Then the minister, to quiet certain rumors that had reached him--he wanted me to sing in the choir again, and there was an uproar when he suggested it--wrote to the California State Board of Health. When he received a reply to his letter, he visited me to talk it over, but I wasn't confiding in Mr. Tingley that day. He said I might hope for salvation if I confessed my wickedness and besought forgiveness from G.o.d. He offered to pray for me and with me. He meant well--poor, silly dear!--but he was so terribly incredulous that presently I told him I didn't blame him a bit and suggested that I be permitted to paddle my own canoe, as it were. Thanked him for calling, but told him he needn't call again. He departed in great distress."

"I hold no brief for the Reverend Tingley, Nan; but I'll be shot if your story will hold water in a world that's fairly well acquainted with the frailty of humankind. Of course I believe you--and, for some fool reason, I'm not ashamed of my own intelligence in so believing. I have accepted you on faith. What sets my reason tottering on its throne is the fact that you insist upon protecting this scoundrel."