Captain Dan's fears concerning the safety of his showcases were
groundless. Even as he sprang up the steps to the side door of his place
of business, he heard familiar voices in the store. He recognized
the voices, and, halting momentarily to wipe his forehead with his
handkerchief and to regain some portion of his composure and his breath,
he walked in.
Gertrude, his daughter, was seated in his chair by the desk, and John
Doane was leaning upon the desk, talking with her. In the front of the
store, Sam Bartlett, the boy, who had evidently returned from breakfast,
was doing nothing in particular, and doing it with his usual air of
enjoyment. It was only when required to work that Sam was unhappy.
Gertrude looked up as her father entered; prior to that she had been
looking at the blotter on the desk. John Doane, who had been looking at
Gertrude, also changed the direction of his gaze. Captain Dan struggled
with the breath and the composure.
“Why, Dad!” exclaimed Gertrude. “What is it?”
“What's the matter, Cap'n Dott?” asked Mr. Doane.
Daniel did his best to appear calm; it was a poor best. At fifty-two one
cannot run impromptu hurdle races against time, and show no effects.
“Hey?” he panted. “Matter? Nothin's the matter. I left the store alone
for a minute and I was in a kind of hurry to get back to it, that's
all.”
The explanation was not entirely satisfactory. Gertrude looked more
puzzled than ever.
“A minute,” she repeated. “Left it a minute! Why, John and I have been
here fifteen minutes, and Sam was here when we came.”
The captain looked at his watch. “Well, maybe 'twas a little more'n a
minute,” he admitted.
Master Bartlett sauntered up to take part in the conversation.
“I got here twenty minutes ago,” he observed, grinning, “and you wasn't
here then, Cap'n Dan'l. I was wonderin' what had become of ye.”
Daniel seized the opportunity to change the subject.
“Anybody been in since you came?” he asked, addressing Sam.
“No, nobody special. Abel Calvin was in to see if you wanted to buy some
beach plums for puttin' up. He said he had about a bushel of first-rate
ones, just picked.”
“Beach plums! What in time would I want of beach plums? I don't put up
preserves, do I? Why didn't he go to the house?”
“I asked him that, myself, and he said 'twa'n't no use.”
“No use! What did he mean by that?”
“Well, he said--he said--” Sam seemed suddenly to realize that he was
getting into deep water; “he said--he said somethin' or other; I guess
I've forgot what 'twas.”
“I guess you ain't. WHAT did he say?”
“Well, he said--he said Serena--Mrs. Dott, I mean--was probably
gallivantin' down to the lodge room by this time. Said 'twa'n't no use
tryin' to get her to attend to common things or common folks nowadays;
she was too busy tryin' to keep up with Annette Black.”
This literal quotation from the frank Mr. Calvin caused a sensation.
Captain Dan struggled to find words. His daughter laid a hand on his
sleeve.
“Never mind, Dad,” she said, soothingly. “You know what Abel Calvin is;
you don't mind what he says. Sam, you shouldn't repeat such nonsense.
Run away now and attend to your work. I'm sure there's enough for you to
do.”
“You--you go and clean up the cellar,” ordered the irate captain. Sam
departed cellarward, muttering that it wasn't his fault; HE hadn't said
nothin'. Gertrude spoke again.
“Don't mind that, Dad,” she urged. “Why, how warm you are, and how
excited you look. What is it? You haven't spoken a word to John.”
Her father shook his head. “Mornin', John,” he said. “I beg your pardon.
I ain't responsible to-day, I shouldn't wonder. I--I've had some news
that's drivin' everything else out of my mind.”
“News? Why, Dad! what do you mean? Bad news?”
“No, no! Good as ever was, and.... Humph! no, I don't mean that. It is
bad news, of course. Your Great-aunt Laviny's dead, Gertie.”
He told of the lawyer's letter, omitting for the present the news of the
legacy. Gertrude was interested, but not greatly shocked or grieved. She
had met her great-aunt but once during her lifetime, and her memory of
the deceased was of a stately female, whose earrings and brooches and
rings sparkled as if she was on fire in several places; who sat bolt
upright at the further end of a hotel room in Boston, and ordered
Captain Dan not to bring “that child” any nearer until its hands were
washed. As she had been the child and had distinctly disagreeable
recollections of the said hands having been washed three times before
admittance to the presence, the memory was not too pleasant. She said
she was sorry to hear that Aunt Lavinia was no more, and asked when it
happened. Her father told what he knew of the circumstances attending
the bereavement, which was not much.
“She's gone, anyhow,” he said. “It's liable to happen to any of us,
bein' cut off that way. We ought to be prepared, I suppose.”
“I suppose so. But, Daddy, Aunt Lavinia wasn't cut off exactly, was she?
She was your aunt and she must have been quite old.”
“Hey? Why, let's see. She was your grandpa's brother's wife, and
he--Uncle Jim, I mean--was about four years older than Father. She
was three years younger'n he was when he married her. Let's see again.
Father--that's your grandpa, Gertie--was sixty-five when he died and...
Humph! No, Aunt Laviny was eighty-eight, or thereabouts. She wasn't
exactly cut off, was she, come to think of it?”
Gertrude's brown eyes twinkled. “Not exactly--no,” she said, gravely.
“Well, Daddy, I'm sure I am sorry she has gone, but, considering that
she has never deigned to visit us or have us visit her, or even to write
you a letter for the past two years, I don't think we should be expected
to mourn greatly. And,” glancing at him, “I don't understand just what
you meant by saying first that the news was good, and then that it was
bad. There is something else, isn't there?”
Her father smiled, in an embarrassed way. “Well, ye--es,” he admitted,
“there is somethin' else, but--but I don't know as I didn't do wrong to
feel so good over it. I--I guess I'll tell you by and by, if you don't
mind. Maybe then I won't feel--act, I mean--so tickled. It don't seem
right that I should be. Let me get sort of used to it first. I'll tell
you pretty soon.”
His daughter laughed, softly. “I know you will, Dad,” she said. “You
couldn't keep a secret in that dear old head of yours if you tried. Not
from me, anyway; could you, dear?”
“I guess not,” regarding her fondly. “Anyhow, I shan't try to keep this
one. Well, this time to-morrow you'll be back at college again, in among
all those Greek and Latin folks. Wonder she'll condescend to come and
talk plain United States to us Cape Codders, ain't it, John.”
John Doane admitted that it was a wonder. He seemed to regard Miss Dott
as a very wonderful young person altogether. Gertrude glanced up at him,
then at her father, and then at the blotter on the desk. She absently
played with the pages of the ledger.
“Dad,” she said, suddenly, “you are not the only one who has a secret.”
The captain turned and looked at her. Her head was bent over the ledger
and he could see but the top of a very becoming hat, a stray lock of
wavy brown hair, and the curve of a very pretty cheek. The cheek--what
he could see of it--was crimson. He looked up at Mr. Doane. That young
man's face was crimson also.
“Oh!” said Captain Daniel; and added, “I want to know!”
“Yes, you're not the only one. We--I--there is another secret. Daddy,
dear, John wants to talk with you.”
The captain looked at Mr. Doane, then at the hat and the face beneath
it.
“Oh!” he said, again.
“Yes. I--I--” She rose and, putting her arms about her father's neck,
kissed him. “I will be back before long, dear,” she whispered, and
hurried out. Mr. Doane cleared his throat. Captain Dan waited.
“Well, sir,” began the young man, and stopped. The captain continued to
wait.
“Well, sir,” began Mr. Doane, again, “I--I--” For one who, as Gertrude
had declared, wished to talk, he seemed to be finding the operation
difficult. “I--Well, sir, the fact is, I have something to say to you.”
Captain Dan, who was looking very grave, observed that he “wanted to
know.” John Doane cleared his throat once more, and took a fresh start.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I have something to say to you--er--something
that--that may surprise you.”
A faint smile disturbed the gravity of the captain's face.
“May surprise me, hey?” he repeated. “Is that so?”
“Yes. You see, I--Gertie and I--have--are--”
Daniel looked up.
“Hard navigatin', ain't it, John?” he inquired, whimsically. “Maybe I
could help you over the shoals. You and Gertie think you'd like to get
married sometime or other, I presume likely. Is that what you're tryin'
to tell me?”
There was no doubt of it. The young man's face expressed several
emotions, relief that the great secret was known, and surprise that
anyone should have guessed it.
“Why, yes, sir,” he admitted, “that is it. Gertie and I have known each
other for years, ever since we were children, in fact; and, you see--you
see--” he paused once more, began again, and then broke out impatiently
with, “I'm making an awful mess of this. I don't know why.”
Captain Dan's smile broadened.
“I made just as bad a one myself, once on a time,” he observed. “Just
as bad, or worse--and _I_ didn't know why either. There, John, you sit
down. Come to anchor alongside here, and let's talk this thing over in
comfort.”
Mr. Doane “came to anchor” on an empty packing case beside the desk. As
he was tall and big, and the box was low and small, the “comfort” was
doubtful. However, neither of the pair noticed this at the time.
“So you think you want Gertie, do you, John?” said the captain.
“I know it,” was the emphatic answer.
“So. And she thinks she wants you?”
“She says so.”
“Humph!” with a sidelong glance. “Think she means it?”
“I'm trying to believe she does.”
The tone in which this was uttered caused Captain Dan to chuckle. “'Tis
strange, I'll give in,” he remarked, drily. “No accountin' for taste, is
there--Well,” his gravity returning, “I suppose likely you realize that
her mother and I think consider'ble of her.”
“I realize that thoroughly.”
“You don't realize it as much as you will some day, perhaps. Yes, we
think Gertie's about right. She's a smart girl and, what's more, she's
a good girl, and she's all the child we've got. Of course we've realized
that she was growin' up and that--Oh, good mornin', Alphy. Fine weather,
ain't it. Lookin' for somethin', was you?”
He hurried out into the store to sell Mrs. Theophilus Berry, known
locally as “Alphy Ann,” a box of writing paper and a penholder. The
transaction completed, he returned to his chair. John Doane, who had
recovered, in a measure, from his embarrassment, was ready for him.
“Cap'n Dott,” said the young man, “I know how you feel, I think. I
know what Gertie is to you and how anxious you and her mother must
be concerning her future. If I did not feel certain--practically
certain--that I could give her a good home and all that goes with it,
I should not have presumed to speak to her, or to you, concerning
marriage. My business prospects are good, or I think they are. I--”
The captain held up his hand. “Er--er--John,” he said, uneasily, “maybe
you'd better tell about that part of it when Serena's around. She's the
practical one of us two, I guess, far's money's concerned, anyway. I
used to think I was pretty practical when I was on salt water, but--but
lately I ain't so sure. I'm afraid--”
He stopped, began to speak again, and then relapsed into silence,
seeming to forget his companion altogether. The latter reminded him by
saying:
“I shall be glad to tell Mrs. Dott everything, of course. I have been
with the firm now employing me for eight years, ever since I left high
school. They seem to like me. I have been steadily advanced, my salary
is a fairly good one, and in another year I have the promise of a
partnership. After that my progress will depend upon myself.”
He went on, in a manly, straightforward manner, to speak of his hopes
and ambitions. Daniel listened, but the most of what he heard was
incomprehensible. Increased output and decreased manufacturing
costs were Greek to him. When the young man paused, he brought the
conversation back to what, in his mind, was the essential.
“And you're certain sure that you two care enough for each other?” he
asked. “Not just care, but care enough?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I guess I ain't got much to say. There's one thing, though.
Gertie's young. She ain't finished her schoolin' yet, and--”
“And you think she should. So do I. She wishes to do it, herself, and I
should be the last to prevent her, even if I could. We have agreed that
she shall have the final year at college and then come back to you.
After that--well, after that, the time of our marriage can be settled.
Gertie and I are willing to wait; we expect to. In a few years I shall
have a little more money, I hope, and be more sure of success in life.
I may never be a rich man, but Gertie's tastes and mine are modest. She
does not care for society--”
The captain interrupted. “That's so,” he said, hastily, “she don't. She
don't care for 'em at all. Her mother has the greatest work to get her
to go to lodge meetin's. No, she don't care for societies any more'n I
do. Well, John, I--I--it'll come pretty hard to give her up to anybody.
Wait till you have a daughter of your own and you'll know how hard. But,
if I've got to give her up, I'd rather give her to you than anybody
I know. You're a Trumet boy and I've known you all my life, and so's
Gertie, for that matter. All I can say is, God bless you and--and take
good care of my girl, that's all.”
He extended his hand and John seized it. Then the captain coughed,
blew his nose with vigor, and, reaching into his pocket, produced two
battered cigars.
“Smoke up, John,” he said.
At dinner, a meal at which Mrs. Dott, still busy with the lodge room
decorations, was not present, Gertrude and her father talked it over.
“It comes kind of hard, Gertie,” he admitted, “but, Lord love you,
there's a heap of hard things in this world. John's a good fellow
and--and, well, we ain't goin' to lose you just yet, anyhow.”
Gertrude rose and, coming around the table, put her arms about his neck.
“Indeed you're not, dear,” she said. “If I supposed my marriage meant
giving you up, I shouldn't think of it.”
“Want to know! Wouldn't think of John, either, I suppose, hey?”
“Well, I--I might think of him a little, just a tiny little bit.”
“I shouldn't wonder. That's all right. You can't get rid of me so easy.
After you two are all settled in your fine new house, I'll be comin'
around to disgrace you, puttin' my boots on the furniture and--”
“Dad!”
“Won't I? Well, maybe I won't. I cal'late by that time I'll be broke
to harness. Your mother's gettin' in with the swells so, lately, Barney
Black's wife and the rest, that I'll have to mind my manners. There!
let's go into the sittin'-room a few minutes and give Zuba a chance to
clear off. Sam's tendin' store and his dinner can wait a spell; judgin'
by the time he took for breakfast he hadn't ought to be hungry for the
next week.”
In the sitting-room they spoke of many things, of Gertrude's departure
for school--she was leaving on the three o'clock train--of the
engagement, of course, and of the three thousand dollar windfall from
Aunt Lavinia. The captain had told that bit of news when they sat down
to dinner.
“What is that cousin's name?” asked Gertrude. “The one who inherits all
of your aunt's fortune?”
“Let's see. His name? I ought to know it well's I know my own.
It's--it's Starvation, or somethin' like that. Somethin' about bein'
hungry, anyhow. Hungerford, Percy Hungerford, that's it!”
Gertrude looked surprised.
“Not Percy Hungerford--of Scarford!” she cried. “What sort of a man is
he? What does he look like?”
“Looked like a picked chicken, last time I saw him. Kind of a spindlin'
little critter, with sandy complexion and hair, but dressed--my soul!
there wasn't any picked chicken look about his clothes.”
Gertrude nodded. “I believe it is the same one,” she said. “Yes, I am
sure of it. He came out to the college at one of our commencements. One
of the girls invited him. He danced with me--once. They said he was very
wealthy.”
“Humph! All the wealth he had come from Aunt Laviny, far's I ever
heard. He was her pet and the only thing she ever spent money on, except
herself. And you met him! Well, this is a small world. Like him, did
you?”
“No,” said Gertrude, and changed the subject.
Before her father departed for the store and she went to her room to
finish packing, she sat upon the arm of his chair and, bending down,
said:
“Daddy, if you hadn't got this money, this three thousand dollars, do
you know what I had very nearly made up my mind to do?”
“No, I'm sure I don't.”
“I had almost decided not to stay at college, but to come back here and
live with you and mother.”
“For the land sakes! Why?”
“Because I was sure you needed me. You never told me, of course--being
you, you wouldn't--but I was sure that you were troubled about--about
things.”
“Me? Troubled? What put that into your head? I'm the most gay,
happy-go-lucky fellow in the world. I don't get troubled enough. Ask
your mother if that ain't so.”
“I shall not ask anybody but you. Tell me truly: Weren't you troubled;
about the business, and the store? Truly, now.”
Captain Dan rubbed his chin. He wished very much to deny the allegation,
or at least to dodge the truth. But he was a poor prevaricator at any
time, and his daughter was looking him straight in the eye.
“Well,” he faltered, “I--I--How in time did you guess that? I--Humph!
why, yes, I was a little mite upset. You see, trade ain't been first
rate this summer, and collections were awful slow. I hate to drive
folks, especially when I know they're hard up. I was a little worried,
but it's all right now. Aunt Laviny's three thousand fixed that all
right. It'll carry me along like a full sail breeze. You go back to
school, like a sensible girl, and don't you worry a mite. It's all right
now, Gertie.”
“Honest?”
“Honest to Betsy!” with an emphatic nod.
He meant it; he really thought it was all right. The fact that he owed
a thousand already and that the remaining two would almost certainly be
swept into the capacious maw of the Metropolitan Store did not occur to
him then. Daniel Dott was a failure as a business man but as an optimist
he was a huge success.
“Then you're sure you can afford to have me go back for my last year?”
“Course I am. I couldn't afford to do anything else.”
His absolute certainty stifled his daughter's doubts for the time, but
she asked another question.
“And there's nothing that troubles you at all?”
“No-o.” The captain's answer was not quite as emphatic this time.
Gertrude smiled, and patted his shoulder.
“Daddy, dear,” she said, “you're as transparent as a window pane, aren't
you. Well, don't worry any more. That will be all right pretty soon,
too. Mrs. Black doesn't stay in Trumet all the year.”
Her father gasped. That this child of his, whom he had always regarded
as a child, should dive into the recesses of his soul and drag to light
its most secret misgivings was amazing.
“What on earth?” he demanded.
“You know what I mean. I'm not blind. I can see. Mother is just a little
carried away. She has heard so much about big houses and servants and
society and woman's opportunity, and all the rest of it, that she has
been swept off her feet. But it won't last, I'm sure. She isn't really
discontented; she only thinks she is.”
Daniel sighed. “I know,” he said. “Fact is, I ain't up-to-date enough,
myself, that's what's the matter. She's a mighty able, ambitious
woman, your mother is, Gertie, and I don't wonder she gets to thinkin',
sometimes, that Trumet is a kind of one-horse town. I like it; I AM
one-horse, I suppose. But she ain't, and she ain't satisfied to be
satisfied, like me. It's a good thing she ain't, I guess. Somebody's got
to live up to the responsibilities of life, and--”
Gertrude laughed. “She said that, didn't she,” she interrupted.
“Why, yes, she did. She says it every once in a while. How did you
know?”
“I guessed. And I imagine Mrs. Phelps Black said it first. But there,
Dad, be patient and.... Sh-sh! here's Mother now.”
It was Serena, sure enough, breathless from hurrying, her hat a bit
on one side, one glove off and the other on, but full of energy and
impatience.
“I suppose you've had dinner,” she exclaimed. “Well, all right, I don't
care. I couldn't help being late, there was so much to do at the lodge
rooms and nobody to do it right, except me. If Mrs. Black hadn't helped
and superintended and--and everything, I don't know where we should have
been. And those visiting delegates from Boston coming! I must get a bite
and hurry back. Where's Azuba? Azuba!”
She was rushing in the direction of the kitchen, but her husband
detained her.
“Hold on, Serena,” he shouted. “Goin' back! What do you mean? You ain't
goin' back to that lodge this afternoon, are you? Why, Gertie's goin' on
the up-train!”
“I know, but I must go back, Daniel. Goodness knows what would happen
if I didn't. If you had seen some of the decorations those other women
wanted to put up, you would think it was necessary for someone with
respectable taste to be there. Why, Sophronia Smalley actually would
have draped the presiding officer's desk--MY desk--with a blue flag with
a white whale on it, if I hadn't been there to stop her.”
“Well, I--Why, Serena, you know Sophrony thinks a sight of that flag.
Simeon Smalley, her father, was in the whalin' trade for years, and that
flag was his private signal. She always has that flag up somewhere.”
“Well, she shan't have it on my desk. Annette--Mrs. Black, I mean--said
it was ridiculous. If such a thing happened in Scarford the audience
would have hysterics. Would you want your wife to make a spectacle of
herself, before those Boston delegates, standing behind a white whale,
and a dirty white at that! Gertie, I shall be at the depot to say good
by, but I must be at that lodge room first. I MUST. You understand,
don't you?”
Gertrude said she understood perfectly and her mother hurried to the
kitchen, where she ate lukewarm fried fish and apple pie, while Azuba
washed the dishes and prophesied darkly concerning “dyspepsy.” Gertrude
went to her room to put the last few things in her trunks, and Captain
Dan returned to the store, where he found the Bartlett boy pacifying a
gnawing appetite with chocolate creams abstracted from stock.
At a quarter to three the captain was at the railway station, where
he was joined by John Doane, who, his vacation over, was returning
to Boston. After a five-minute wait Serena and Gertrude appeared. The
latter had called at the lodge room for her mother and, during the walk
to the station, had broken the news of her engagement.
Serena was not surprised, of course; she, like everyone else, had
expected it, and she liked John. But she was a good deal agitated and
even the portentous business of the lodge meeting was driven from her
mind. She and Mr. Doane shook hands, but the young man felt very much
like a thief, and a particularly mean sort of thief, as young men are
likely to feel under such circumstances. Farewells were harder to say
than usual, although Gertrude tried her best to seem cheerful, and
the captain swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled and joked in a
ghastly fashion all through the ceremony. Just before the train started,
his daughter led him to one side and whispered:
“Now, Daddy, remember--you are not to worry. And, if you need me at
any time, you will tell me so, and I shall surely come. You'll promise,
won't you? And you will write at least once a week?”
The captain made both promises. They kissed, Serena and Gertrude
exchanged hugs, and John Doane solemnly shook hands once more. Then the
train moved away from the station.
Daniel and Serena walked homeward, Mrs. Dott wiping her eyes with a damp
handkerchief, and her husband very grave and silent. As they passed the
lodge building the lady said:
“I ought to go right back in there again. I ought to, but I just can't,
not now. I--I want to be with you, Daniel, a time like this.”
“Goodness knows I want you, Serena; but--but for mercy sakes don't call
it a 'time like this.' Sounds as if we'd just come from the cemetery
instead of the depot. We ain't been to a funeral; we're only lookin'
for'ard to a weddin'.”
In spite of this philosophical declaration the remainder of that
afternoon was rather funereal for Captain Dan. He moped about the store,
waiting half-heartedly upon the few customers who happened in, and the
ring of the supper bell was welcome, as it promised some company other
than his thoughts.
But the promise was not fulfilled. He ate his supper alone. Mrs. Dott
had gone back to the lodge room, so Azuba said.
“I don't think she was intendin' to,” remarked the latter,
confidentially. “She said she guessed she'd 'lay down a spell'; said she
was 'kind of tired.' But afore she got upstairs scarcely, along comes
that Black automobile with that Irish 'shover man'--that's what they
call 'em, ain't it?--drivin' it and her in the back seat, and he gets
out and comes and rings the front door bell, and when I answer it--had
my hands all plastered up with dough, I did, for I was makin' pie, and
it took me the longest time to get 'em clean--when I answered it he said
that she said she wanted to see her and--”
“Here! hold on, Zuba!” interrupted her bewildered employer. “'Vast
heavin' a second, will you? You ought to run that yarn of yours through
a sieve and strain some of the 'hes' and 'shes' out of it. 'He said that
she said she wanted to see her.' Who wanted to see what?”
“Why, Barney Black's wife. She wanted to see Serena. So in she came, all
rigged up in her best clothes and--”
“How do you know they were her best ones?”
“Hey? Well, they would have been MY best ones, if _I_ owned 'em, I tell
you that. I never see such clothes as that woman has! All trimmin' and
flounces and didos, and--”
“Hi! steady there, Zuba. Keep your eye on the compass. You're gettin'
off the course again. Annette--Mrs. Black, I mean--came to see Mrs.
Dott; that's plain sailin' so far. What happened after that?”
“Why, they went off together in the automobile and Serena said to tell
you she had to go to lodge, and she'd be back when she could and not to
wait supper. That's all I know.”
The captain finished his lonely meal and returned to the store, where
he found Abel Blount's wife and their twin boys, aged eight, waiting to
negotiate for rubber boots. The boots were for the boys, but Mrs. Blount
did the buying and it was a long and talky process. At last, however,
the youngsters were fitted and clumped proudly away, bearing their
leather shoes in their hands. It was a dry evening, but to separate
the twins from those rubber boots would have been next door to an
impossibility.
“There!” exclaimed the lady, as she bade the captain good night, “that's
done; that much is settled anyhow. I'm thankful I ain't got four twins,
instead of two, Cap'n Dott.”
Daniel, entering the sale in the ledger, was thankful also. If the
lengthy Blount account had been settled he would have been still more
so.
At nine o'clock he and Sam locked up, extinguished the lamps, and closed
the Metropolitan Store for the night. Crossing the yard to the house,
which he entered by the front door, he found Serena in the sitting-room.
She was reclining upon the couch. She was tired, and out of sorts.
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, acknowledging her husband's greeting with a
nod, “I am just about worn out, Daniel.”
“I should think you would be, Serena. You've been makin' tracks between
here and that lodge room all to-day and yesterday, too. I should think
you'd be about dead.”
“It isn't that. I don't mind the work. It's the thanklessness of it all
that breaks me down. I give my time and effort to help the lodge, and
what does it amount to?”
“Well, I--I give in that it don't seem to me to amount to much, 'cordin'
to my figurin'. I don't care much for lodge meetin's and sociables and
such, myself. I'd rather have one evenin' at home with you than the
whole cargo of 'em.”
This statement was frank, but it was decidedly undiplomatic. Serena
sniffed contempt.
“Of course you would!” she said. “I don't get a bit of encouragement
here at home, either. I should think you'd be proud to have your
wife the head of the Chapter, presiding at meetings and welcoming the
visiting delegates and--and all.”
“I am,” hastily. “I'm proud of you, Serena. Always have been, far's that
goes. But I'm just as proud of you here in this sittin'-room as I am
when you're back of that pulpit, poundin' with your mallet and tellin'
Alphy Ann Berry to 'come to order.' Notwithstanding that you're the only
one can make her come--or go, either--unless she takes a notion. Why,”
with a chuckle, “it takes her husband half an hour to make her go home
after meetin's over.”
Mrs. Dott did not chuckle.
“You think it's a joke,” she said. “I don't. It is the Berry woman and
her kind that make me disgusted. I'm tired of them all. I'm tired of
Trumet. I wish we were somewhere where I had an opportunity; somewhere
where I might be appreciated.”
“_I_ appreciate you, Serena.”
Serena ignored the remark. “I wish we had never settled here,” she went
on. “I'd leave in a minute, if I could. I'd like to be in with nice
people, cultivated people, intelligent, up-to-date society, where I
could have a chance to go on and be somebody. I'd like to be a leader.
I could be. Annette says I would be in a city like Scarford. She says I
'have the faculty of the born leader.' All I lack is the opportunity.”
Her husband sighed. He had heard all this before. Inwardly he wished
Mrs. Black at Scarford, or China, or anywhere, provided it was not
Trumet.
His wife heard the sigh. “There, Daniel,” she said; “I won't be
complaining. I try not to be. But,” she hesitated, “there is one thing
I'd like to ask, now that we've got your Aunt Lavinia's three thousand:
Don't you suppose I could have some new clothes; I need at least two
dresses right away.”
“Why--why, I guess likely you could, Serena. Yes, course you can. You go
see Sarah Loveland right off.”
Miss Loveland was the Trumet dressmaker. At the mention of her name
Serena shook her head.
“I don't want Sarah to make them, Daniel,” she said. “Mrs. Black says
the things she makes are awful old-fashioned; 'country,' she calls
them.”
Daniel snorted. “I want to know!” he exclaimed. “Well, I remember her
husband when his ma used to make his clothes out of his dad's old
ones. I don't know whether they was 'country' or not, but they were the
dumdest things ever _I_ saw. Country, huh! Scarford ain't any Paris, is
it? I never heard it was.”
“Well, it isn't Trumet. No, Daniel, if we could afford it, I'd like to
have these dresses made up in Boston, where Gertie gets hers. Mrs. Black
often speaks of Gertie's gowns; she says they are remarkably stylish,
considering.”
“CONSIDERIN'! What does she mean by that?”
“Don't be cross. I suppose she meant considering that they were not
as expensive as her own. DO you suppose I could go to that Boston
dressmaker, Daniel?”
Captain Dan's reply was slow in coming. He hated to say no; in fact, he
said it so seldom that he scarcely knew how. So he temporized.
“Well, Serena,” he began, “I--I'd like to have you; you know that. If
'twasn't for the cost I wouldn't hesitate a minute.”
“But we have that three thousand dollars.”
“Well, we ain't got all of it. Or we shan't have it long. I was footin'
up what I owed--what the store owes, I mean--just now, and it come to a
pretty high figure. Over twelve hundred, it was. That's GOT to be paid.
Then there's Gertie's schoolin' and her board. Course, I never tell her
we ain't so well off as we were. You and I agreed she shouldn't know.
But it takes a lot of money and--”
Mrs. Dott sat up on the couch. Her eyes snapped. “Oh!” she cried;
“money! money! money! It's always money! If only just once I had all the
money I wanted, I should be perfectly happy. If I wouldn't GO IT!”
Steps sounded on the front porch, and the patent door bell clicked and
clanged.