The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety Store at Trumet Centre was open
for business. Sam Bartlett, the boy whose duty it was to take down
the shutters, sweep out, dust, and wait upon early-bird customers, had
performed the first three of these tasks and gone home for breakfast.
The reason he had not performed the fourth--the waiting upon
customers--was simple enough; there had been no customers to wait upon.
The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety Store was open and ready for
business--but, unfortunately, there was no business.
There should have been. This was August, the season of the year when, if
ever, Trumet shopkeepers should be beaming across their counters at the
city visitor, male or female, and telling him or her, that “white duck
hats are all the go this summer,” or “there's nothin' better than an
oilskin coat for sailin' cruises or picnics.” Outing shirts and yachting
caps, fancy stationery, post cards, and chocolates should be changing
hands at a great rate and the showcase, containing the nicked blue
plates and cracked teapots, the battered candlesticks and tarnished
pewters, “genuine antiques,” should be opened at frequent intervals for
the inspection of bargain-seeking mothers and their daughters. July and
August are the Cape Cod harvest months; if the single-entry ledgers of
Trumet's business men do not show good-sized profits during that season
they are not likely to do so the rest of the year.
Captain Daniel Dott, proprietor of the Metropolitan Store, bending over
his own ledger spread on the little desk by the window at the rear of
his establishment, was realizing this fact, realizing it with a sinking
heart and a sense of hopeless discouragement. The summer was almost
over; September was only three days off; in another fortnight the hotels
would be closed, the boarding houses would be closing, and Trumet,
deserted by its money spending visitors, would be falling asleep,
relapsing into its autumn and winter hibernation. And the Dott ledger,
instead of showing a profit of a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars, as
it had the first summer after Daniel bought the business, showed but a
meager three hundred and fifty, over and above expenses.
Through the window the sun was shining brightly. From the road in front
of the store--Trumet's “Main Street”--came the rattle of wheels and the
sound of laughter and conversation in youthful voices. The sounds drew
nearer. Someone shouted “Whoa!” Daniel Dott, a ray of hope illuminating
his soul at the prospect of a customer, rose hurriedly from his seat by
the desk and hastened out into the shop.
A big two-horsed vehicle, the “barge” from the Manonquit House, had
stopped before the door. It was filled with a gay crowd, youths and
maidens from the hotel, dressed in spotless flannels and “blazers,” all
talking at once, and evidently carefree and happy. Two of the masculine
members of the party descended from the “barge” and entered the store.
Daniel, smiling his sweetest, stepped forward to meet them.
“Good mornin', good mornin',” he said. “A fine mornin', ain't it?”
The greeting was acknowledged by both of the young fellows, and one of
them added that it was a fine morning, indeed.
“Don't know as I ever saw a finer,” observed Daniel. “Off on a cruise
somewhere, I presume likely; hey?”
“Picnic down at the Point.”
“Well, you've got picnic weather, all right. Yes sir, you have!”
Comment concerning the weather is the inevitable preliminary to all
commercial transactions in Trumet. Now, preliminaries being over, Daniel
waited hopefully for what was to follow. His hopes were dashed.
“Is--is Miss Dott about?” inquired one of the callers.
“Miss Dott? Oh, Gertie! No, she ain't. She's gone down street
somewheres. Be back pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder.”
“Humph! Well, I'm afraid we can't wait. We hoped she might go with us on
the picnic. We--er--we wanted her very much.”
“That so? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid she couldn't go, even if she was
here. You see, it's her last day at home, and--we--her mother and
I--that is, I don't believe she'd want to leave us to-day.”
“No; no, of course not. Well, tell her we wish she might have come,
but we understand. Yes, yes,” in answer to the calls from the “barge,”
“we're coming. Well, good by, Captain Dott.”
“Er--good by. Er--er--don't want anything to take along, do you? A nice
box of candy, or--or anything?”
“No, I think not. We stopped at the Emporium just now, and loaded up
with candy enough to last a week. Good morning.”
“How are you fixed for sun hats and things? I've got a nice line of hats
and--well, good by.”
“Good by.”
The “barge” moved off. Daniel, standing dejectedly in the door,
remembered his manners.
“Hope you have a nice time,” he shouted. Then he turned and moved
disconsolately back to the desk. He might have expected it. It was thus
in nine cases out of ten. The Emporium, Mr. J. Cohen, proprietor, was
his undoing in this instance as in so many others. The Emporium got the
trade and he got the good bys. Mr. Cohen was not an old resident, as
he was; Mr. Cohen's daughter was not invited to picnics by the summer
people; Mrs. Cohen was not head of the sewing circle and the Chapter of
the Ladies of Honor, and prominent socially, as was Mrs. Dott; but Mr.
Cohen bought cheap and sold cheap, and the Emporium flourished like a
green bay tree, while the Metropolitan Store was rapidly going to seed.
Daniel, looking out through the front window at the blue sea in the
distance, thought of the past, of the days when, as commander and
part owner of the three masted schooner Bluebird, he had been free and
prosperous and happy. Then he considered the future, which was bluer
than the sea, and sighed again. Why had he not been content to stick
to the profession he understood, to remain on the salt water he loved;
instead of retiring from the sea to live on dry land and squander his
small fortune in a business for which he was entirely unfitted?
And yet the answer was simple enough. Mrs. Dott--Mrs. Serena Dott, his
wife--was the answer, she and her social aspirations. It was Serena
who had coaxed him into giving up seafaring; who had said that it was
a shame for him to waste his life ordering foremast hands about when he
might be one of the leading citizens in his native town. It was Serena
who had persuaded him to invest the larger part of his savings in
the Metropolitan Store. Serena, who had insisted that Gertrude, their
daughter and only child, should leave home to attend the fashionable
and expensive seminary near Boston. Serena who--but there! it was all
Serena; and had been ever since they were married. Captain Daniel, on
board his schooner, was a man whose word was law. On shore, he was law
abiding, and his words were few.
The side door of the store--that leading to the yard separating it from
the Dott homestead--opened, and Azuba Ginn appeared. Azuba had been
the Dott maid of all work for eighteen years, ever since Gertrude was a
baby. She was married, but her husband, Laban Ginn, was mate on a steam
freighter running between New York and almost anywhere, and his shore
leaves were short and infrequent. Theirs was a curious sort of married
life. “We is kind of independent, Labe and me,” said Azuba. “He often
says to me--that is, as often as we're together, which ain't often--he
says to me, he says, 'Live where you want to, Zuby,' he says, 'and if
you want to move, move! When I get ashore I can hunt you up.' We don't
write many letters because time each get t'other's, the news is so
plaguey old 'tain't news at all. You Dotts seem more like home folks to
me than anybody else, so I stick to you. I presume likely I shall till I
die.”
Azuba entered the store in the way in which she did most things, with
a flurry and a slam. Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an apron, and
one hand dripped suds, demonstrating that it had just been taken from
the dishpan. In the other, wiped more or less dry on the apron, she held
a crumpled envelope.
“Well!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “If some human bein's don't beat
the Dutch then _I_ don't know, that's all. If the way some folks go
slip-slop, hit or miss, through this world ain't a caution then--Tut!
tut! tut! don't talk to ME!”
Captain Dan looked up from the ledger.
“What?” he asked absently.
“I say, don't talk to ME!”
“We--ll,” with deliberation, “I guess I shan't, unless you stop talkin'
yourself, and give me a chance. What's the matter now, Zuba?”
“Matter! Don't talk to ME! Carelessness is the matter! Slip-sloppiness
is the matter! Here's a man that calls himself a man and goes mopin'
around pretendin' to BE a man, and what does he do?”
“I don't know. I'd tell you better, maybe, if I knew who he was.”
“Who he was! I'll tell you who he was--is, I mean. He's Balaam
Hambleton, that's who he is.”
“Humph! Bale Hamilton, hey? Then it's easy enough to say what he
does--nothin', most of the time. Is that letter for me?”
“Course it's for you! And it's a week old, what's more. One week ago
that letter come in the mail and the postmaster let that--that Hambleton
thing take it, 'cause he said he was goin' right by here and could leave
it just as well as not. And this very mornin' that freckle-faced boy
of his--that George Washin'ton one--what folks give such names to their
young ones for _I_ can't see!--he rung the front door bell and yanked
me right out of the dish water, and he says his ma found the letter in
Balaam's other pants when she was mendin' 'em, and would I please excuse
his forgettin' it 'cause he had so much on his mind lately. Mind! Land
of love! if he had a thistle top on his mind 'twould smash it flat.
Don't talk to me!”
“I won't,” drily; “I WON'T, Zuba, I swear it. Let's see the letter.”
He bent forward and took the letter from her hand. Then, adjusting his
spectacles, he examined the envelope. It was of the ordinary business
size and was stamped with the Boston postmark, and a date a week old.
Captain Dan looked at the postmark, studied the address, which was in an
unfamiliar handwriting, and then turned the envelope over. On the flap
was printed “Shepley and Farwell, Attorneys, ----- Devonshire Street.”
The captain drew a long breath; he leaned back in his chair and sat
staring at the envelope.
Azuba wiped the suds from her wet hand and arm upon her apron. Then she
wrapped it and the other arm in said apron and coughed. The cough was
intended to arouse her employer from the trance into which he had,
apparently, fallen. But it was without effect. Captain Daniel did stop
staring at the envelope, but he merely transferred his gaze to the
ink-spattered blotter and the ledger upon it, and stared at them.
“Well?” observed Azuba.
The captain started. “Hey?” he exclaimed, looking up. “Did you speak?”
“I said 'Well?'. I suppose that's speakin'?”
“'Well?' Well what?”
“Oh, nothin'! I was just wonderin'--”
“Wonderin' what?”
“I was wonderin' if that letter was anything important. Ain't you goin'
to open it and see?”
“Hey? Open it? Oh, yes, yes. Well, I shouldn't wonder if I opened it
some time or other, Zuba. I gen'rally open my letters. It's a funny
habit I have.”
“Humph! Well, all right, then. I didn't know. Course, 'tain't none of my
business what's in other folks's letters. _I_ ain't nosey, land knows.
Nobody can accuse me of--”
“Nobody can accuse you of anything, Zuba. Not even dish washin' just
now.”
Azuba drew herself up. Outraged dignity and injured pride were expressed
in every line of her figure. “Well!” she exclaimed; “WELL! if that
ain't--if that don't beat all that ever _I_ heard! Here I leave my work
to do folks favors, to fetch and carry for 'em, and this is what I get.
Cap'n Dott, I want you to understand that I ain't dependent on nobody
for a job. I don't HAVE to slave myself to death for nobody. If you
ain't satisfied--”
“There, there, Zuba! I was only jokin'. Don't get mad!”
“Mad! Who's mad, I'd like to know? It takes more'n that to make me mad,
I'd have you understand.”
“That's good; I'm glad of it. Well, I'm much obliged to you for bringin'
the letter.”
“You're welcome. Land sakes! I don't mind doin' errands, only I like
to have 'em appreciated. And I like jokes well as anybody, but when you
tell me--”
“Hold on! don't get het up again. Keep cool, Zuba, keep cool! Think of
that dish water; it's gettin' cooler every minute.”
The answer to this was an indignant snort followed by the bang of the
door. Azuba had gone. Captain Daniel looked after her, smiled faintly,
shook his head, and again turned his attention to the letter in his
hand. He did not open it immediately. Instead he sat regarding it with
the same haggard, hopeless expression which he had worn when he first
read the firm's name upon the envelope. He dreaded, perhaps, as much as
he had ever dreaded anything in his life, to open that envelope.
He was sure, perfectly sure, what he should find when he did open it.
A letter from the legal representatives of Smith and Denton, the Boston
hat manufacturers and dealers, stating that, unless the latter's
account was paid within the next week, suit for the amount due would be
instituted in the courts. A law suit! a law suit for the collection of
a debt against him, Daniel Dott, the man who had prided himself upon
his honesty! Think of what it would mean! the disgrace of it! the
humiliation, not only for himself but for Serena, his wife, and
Gertrude, his daughter!
He did not blame Smith and Denton; they had been very kind, very lenient
indeed. The thirty-day credit originally given him had been extended to
sixty and ninety. They had written him many times, and each time he had
written in reply that as soon as collections were better he should be
able to pay in full; that he had a good deal of money owed him, and
as soon as it came in they should have it. But it did not come in. No
wonder, considering that it was owed by the loafers and ne'er-do-wells
of the town and surrounding country, who, because no one else would
trust them, bestowed their custom upon good-natured, gullible Captain
Dan. The more recent letters from the hat dealers had been sharper and
less kindly. They had ceased to request; they demanded. At last they had
threatened. And now the threat was to be fulfilled.
The captain laid the envelope down upon the open ledger, rose, and,
going to the front of the store, carefully closed the door. Then, going
to the door communicating with the other half of the store, he made sure
that no one was in the adjoining room. He had a vague feeling that all
the eyes in Trumet were regarding him with suspicion, and he wished to
shut out their accusing gaze. He wanted to be alone when he read that
letter. He had half a mind to take it to the cellar and open it there.
His fingers shook as he tore the end from the envelope. They shook still
more as he drew forth the enclosure, a typewritten sheet, and held it to
the light. He read it through to the end. Then, with a loud exclamation,
almost a shout, he rushed to the side door, flung it open and darted
across the yard, the letter fluttering from his fingers like a flag. The
store was left unguarded, but he forgot that.
He stumbled up the steps into the kitchen. Azuba, a saucer in one hand
and the dish towel in the other, was, to say the least, startled. As she
expressed it afterward, “the everlastin' soul was pretty nigh scart out
of her.” The saucer flew through the air and lit upon the top of the
cookstove.
“What--what--what--” stammered Azuba. “Oh, my land! WHAT is it?”
“Where's Serena?” demanded Captain Daniel, paying no attention to the
saucer, except to tread upon the fragments.
“Hey? Oh, what IS it? Is the store afire?”
“No, no! Where's Serena?”
“She--she--what--”
“Where's SERENA, I ask you?”
“In her room, I cal'late. For mercy sakes, what--”
But the captain did not answer. Through dining-room, sitting-room, and
parlor he galloped, and up the front stairs to the bedroom occupied by
himself and wife. Mrs. Dott was standing before the mirror, red-faced
and panting, both arms behind her and her fingers busily engaged. Her
husband's breath was almost gone by the time he reached the foot of the
stairs; consequently his entrance was a trifle less noisy and startling
than his sky-rocket flight through the kitchen. It is doubtful if his
wife would have noticed even if it had been. She caught a glimpse of him
in the mirror, and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh, it's you, is it!” she panted. “My, I'm glad! For mercy sakes fasten
those last three hooks; I'm almost distracted with 'em.”
But the hooks remained unfastened for the time. Captain Dan threw
himself into a chair and waved the letter.
“Serena,” he cried, puffing like a stranded porpoise, “what--WHAT do you
suppose has happened? Aunt Laviny is dead.”
Serena turned. “Dead!” she repeated. “Your Aunt Lavinia Dott? The rich
one?”
“Yes, sir; she's gone. Died in Italy a fortnight ago. Naples, I think
'twas--or some such outlandish place; you know she's done nothin' but
cruise around Europe ever since Uncle Jim died. The letter says she was
taken sick on a Friday, and died Sunday, so 'twas pretty sudden. I--”
But Mrs. Dott interrupted. “What else does it say?” she asked excitedly.
“What else does that letter say? Who is if from?”
“It's from her lawyers up to Boston. What made you think it said
anything else?”
“Because I'm not blind and I can see your face, Daniel Dott. What else
does it say? Tell me! Has she--did she--?”
Captain Dan nodded solemnly. “She didn't forget us,” he said. “She
didn't forget us, Serena. The letter says her will gives us that solid
silver teapot and sugar-bowl that was presented to Uncle Jim by the Ship
Chandlers' Society, when he was president of it. She willed that to us.
She knew I always admired that tea-pot and--”
His wife interrupted once more.
“Tea-pot!” she repeated strongly. “Tea-pot! What are you talking about?
Do you mean to say that all she left us was a TEA-POT? If you do I--”
“No, no, Serena. Hush! She's left us three thousand dollars besides.
Think of it! Three thousand dollars--just now!”
His voice shook as he said it. He spoke as if three thousand dollars was
an unheard-of sum, a fortune. Mrs. Dott had no such illusion. She sat
down upon the edge of the bed.
“Three thousand dollars!” she exclaimed. “Is that all? Three thousand
dollars!”
“All! My soul, Serena! Why, ONE thousand dollars just now is like--”
“Hush! Do be still! Three thousand dollars! And she worth a hundred
thousand, if she was worth a cent. A lone woman, without a chick or
a child or a relation except you, and that precious young swell of a
cousin of hers she thought so much of. I suppose he gets the rest of it.
Oh, how can anybody be so stingy!”
“Sh-sh, sh-h, Serena. Don't speak so of the dead. Why, we ought to be
mournin' for her, really, instead of rejoicing over what she left us.
It ain't right to talk so. I'm ashamed of myself--or I ought to be. But,
you see, I thought sure the letter was from those hat folks's lawyers,
sayin' they'd started suit. When I found it wasn't, I was so glad I
forgot everything else. Ah hum!--poor Aunt Laviny!”
He sighed. His wife shook her head.
“Daniel,” she said, “I--I declare I try not to lose patience with you,
but it's awful hard work. Mourning! Mourn for her! What did she ever do
to make you sorry she was gone? Did she ever come near us when she was
alive? No, indeed, she didn't. Did she ever offer to give you, or even
lend you, a cent? I guess not. And she knew you needed it, for I wrote
her.”
“You DID? Serena!”
“Yes, I did. Why shouldn't I? I wrote her six months ago, telling her
how bad your business was, and that Gertie was at school, and we were
trying to give her a good education, and how much money it took and--oh,
everything. When your Uncle Jim's business was bad, in the hard
times back in '73, who was it that helped him out and saved him from
bankruptcy? Why, his brother--your own father. And he never got a cent
of it back. I reminded her of that, too.”
Daniel sprang out of his chair.
“You did!” he cried again. “Serena, how could you? You knew how Father
felt about that money. You knew how I felt. And yet, you did that!”
“I did. Somebody in this family must be practical and worldly-minded,
and I seem to be the one. YOU wouldn't ask her for a cent. You wouldn't
ask anybody for money, even if they owed it a thousand years. You sell
everybody anything they want from the store; and trust them for it. You
know you do. You sold that good-for-nothing Lem Brackett a whole suit of
clothes only last week, and he owes you a big bill and has owed it for a
year.”
Her husband looked troubled. “Well,” he answered, slowly, “I suppose
likely I didn't do right there. But those Bracketts are poor, and
there's a big family of 'em, and the fall's comin' on, and--and all.
So--”
“So you thought it was your duty to help support them, I suppose. Oh,
Daniel, Daniel, I don't know what to do with you sometimes.”
Captain Dan looked very grave.
“I guess you're right, Serena,” he admitted. “I ain't much good, I'm
afraid.”
Mrs. Dott's expression changed. She rose, walked over, and kissed him.
“You're too good, that's the main trouble with you,” she said. “Well, I
won't scold any more. I'm glad we've got the three thousand anyway--and
the tea-pot.”
“It's a lovely tea-pot, all engravin' and everything. And the
sugar-bowl's almost as pretty. You'll like 'em, Serena.”
“Yes, I'll love 'em, I don't doubt. You and I can look at them and think
of that cousin of Aunt Lavinia's spending the rest of her fortune. No
wonder she didn't leave him the tea-pot; precious little tea he
drinks, if stories we hear are true. Well, there's one good thing about
it--Gertie can keep on with her college. This is her last year.”
“Yes; I thought of that. I thought of a million things when I was racin'
across the yard with this letter. Say, Serena, you've never told Gertie
anything about how trade was or how hard-up we've been?”
“Of course not.”
“No, I knew you wouldn't. She's such a conscientious girl; if she
thought we couldn't afford it she wouldn't think of keepin' on with that
college, and I've set my heart on her havin' the best start in life we
can give her.”
“I know. Ah hum! I wish she could have the start some people's daughters
have. Mrs. Black was with me at the lodge room yesterday--we are
decorating for the men's evening to-morrow night, you know--and Mrs.
Black has been helping me; she's awfully kind that way. You'd think she
belonged here in Trumet, instead of being rich and living in Scarford
and being way up in society there. She and her husband are just like
common folks.”
“Humph! Barney Black IS common folks. He was born right here in Trumet
and his family was common as wharf rats. HE needn't put on airs with
me.”
“He doesn't. And yet, if he was like some people, he would. So
successful in his big factory, and his wife way up in the best circles
of Scarford; she's head of the Ladies of Honor there as I am here, and
means to get a national office in the order; she told me so. But there!
that reminds me that I was going to meet her at the lodge room at ten,
and it's half-past nine now. Do help me with these hooks. If I wasn't so
fleshy I could do them myself, but I almost died hooking the others.”
“Why didn't you call Zuba? She'd have hooked 'em for you.”
“Azuba! Heavens and earth! She's worse than nobody; her fingers are all
thumbs. Besides, she would talk me deaf, dumb and blind. She doesn't
know her place at all; thinks she is one of the family, I suppose.”
“Well, she is, pretty nigh. Been here long enough.”
“I don't care. She isn't one of the family; she's a servant, or ought to
be. Oh dear! when I hear Annette Black telling about her four servants
and all the rest it makes me so jealous, sometimes.”
“Don't make ME jealous. I'd rather have you and Gertie and this place
than all Barney Black owns--and that means his wife, too.”
“Daniel, I keep telling you not to call Mr. Black 'Barney.' He is
B. Phelps Black now. Mrs. Black always calls him 'Phelps.' So does
everybody in Scarford, so she says.”
“Want to know! He was Barney Black when he lived here regular. Havin'
a summer cottage here and a real house in Scarford must make a lot of
difference. By the way, speakin' of Scarford, that's where Aunt Laviny
used to live afore she went abroad. She owned a big house there.”
“Why, so she did! I wonder what will become of it. I suppose that cousin
will get it, along with the rest. Oh dear! suppose--just suppose there
wasn't any cousin. Suppose you and I and Gertie had that house and the
money. Wouldn't it be splendid? WE could be in society then.”
“Humph! I'd look pretty in society, wouldn't I?”
“Of course you would. You'd look as pretty as Barney--B. Phelps Black,
wouldn't you? And I--Oh, HOW I should love it! Trumet is so out of date.
A real intelligent, ambitious woman has no chance in Trumet.”
The captain shook his head. He recognized the last sentence as a
quotation from the works of Mrs. Annette Black, self-confessed leader
in society in the flourishing manufacturing city of Scarford, and summer
resident and condescending patroness of Trumet.
“Well,” he observed; “we've got more chance, even in Trumet, than we've
had for the last year, thanks to Aunt Laviny's three thousand. It gives
us a breathin' spell, anyhow. If only trade in the store would pick up,
I--Hey! Good heavens to Betsy! I forgot the store altogether. Sam
hadn't got back from breakfast and I left the store all alone. I must be
crazy!”
He bolted from the room and down the stairs, the legacy forgotten for
the moment, and in his mind pictures of rifled showcases and youthful
Trumet regaling itself with chocolates at his expense. Azuba shrieked
another question as her employer once more rushed through the kitchen,
but again her question was unanswered. She hurried to the window and
watched him running across the yard.
“Well!” she exclaimed, in alarmed soliloquy. “WELL, the next time I
fetch that man a letter I'll fetch the doctor along with it. Has the
world turned upside down, or what is the matter?”
She might have made a worse guess. The Dott world was turning upside
down; this was the beginning of the revolution.