Captain Dan's foundations were slipping from beneath him. His daughter's
return had seemed to him like the first ray of sunshine breaking through
the clouds and presaging the end of the storm. Now, it began to look as
if the real storm was but beginning. Gertrude was apparently contracting
the society and Chapter disease. Gertrude, upon whose good sense and
diplomacy he had banked so heavily, was rapidly losing that sense. So
far from influencing her mother to give up the “crazy notions” which
were, Daniel firmly believed, wrecking their home and happiness, she was
actually encouraging and abetting these notions.
The young lady was certainly spending a great deal of time with her
mother and her mother's friends. When Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake called
for consultations concerning Chapter affairs, Gertrude took part in
these consultations. Daniel, peeping into the library, saw the four
heads together over the table, and heard his daughter's voice suggesting
this and that. Invitations to various social functions came, and it was
Gertrude who urged acceptance of these invitations. Captain Dan's pleas
for quiet evenings together at home went for nought.
“You needn't go, Daddy,” said Gertrude. “Mother and I know you don't
care for such things. She and I can go without you.”
“Go without me? The idea! Look pretty, wouldn't it, to have you two
chasin' around nights all by yourself, without a man to look after you!”
“Oh, Cousin Percy will go with us. He is always obliging that way.
Cousin Percy will go, I am sure.”
The captain was equally sure. Cousin Percy was altogether too willing
to go anywhere, at any time, provided Miss Dott went also. This very
obvious fact did not add to Daniel's peace of mind. Rather than have his
family escorted by its newest member, he resolved to sacrifice his own
inclinations and go himself.
Miss Canby--the blonde young woman who played the piano at the Black
home on the night of the dinner--issued invitations for an “At Home” in
her apartments. All the Dott household--Mr. Hungerford included--were
invited. Mrs. Black, who came to call, was enthusiastic. Her jealousy
of Serena, which had manifested itself on the night of the latter's
appointment as an Atterbury delegate, had apparently disappeared. She
was again the dear friend and counselor, with all the old cordiality and
a good deal of the old condescension.
This condescension, however, was confined to Serena and Captain Dan.
Toward Cousin Percy she was extremely polite, but never patronizing,
perhaps because that gentleman was so languidly at ease in her presence.
He listened to her conversation with apparent interest, but his answers,
gravely delivered, were at times a trifle sarcastic. She seemed to be a
bit afraid of Cousin Percy, afraid and somewhat suspicious.
To Gertrude she was gushingly friendly, overwhelmingly so, and the
friendship was, to all outward seeming, returned. Daniel, who had
gathered from his daughter's previous remarks that she disliked the
great Annette, was surprised and dismayed.
“For goodness sakes, Gertie,” he demanded, “what did you kiss her for?
Anybody'd think she was somebody near and dear that you hadn't laid eyes
on for ten years. And she was here only yesterday. Do you love her so
much you have to hug her every time you see her?”
Gertrude laughed. “Do you think I do?” she asked.
“I don't know what to think. It's a mighty sudden love, that's all I've
got to say. Do you want her here ALL the time?”
“Well, when she is here I know where she is.”
“So does anybody within hearin'. I never saw such a change in a person
as there is in you. And all inside of a week. You used to go out of
the room when that Black woman came into it. Now you kiss her when she
comes.”
“No, Daddy; I kiss her when she goes.”
With which puzzling statement the interview ended.
B. Phelps accompanied his wife when the latter called to discuss
the Canby invitation. His coming was unusual, the Dotts had seen
comparatively little of him since their arrival in Scarford. Daniel was
glad he came. Black and he were not altogether congenial; the captain
would not have chosen him as an intimate; but at least there would be
someone present with whom he could exchange a word. As B. Phelps did not
care for Chapters and “At Homes” any more than he did, there was that
bond between them.
Mr. Hungerford was, for a wonder, not in when the callers came. He went
out very little nowadays, except when Miss Dott and her mother went;
then he was always ready to go.
Annette declared that the Canby “At Home” was certain to be a most
unusual affair. “So--er--well, so different,” she explained. “Miss Canby
is a very unusual woman, a unique woman, and her affairs are always
as unique as she is. So truly Bohemian. I adore Bohemians, don't you,
Gertrude?”
Gertrude said she did. “I don't know that I've met a great many,” she
added, “but I'm sure they must be very enjoyable.”
“Oh, they are! And Miss Canby is one. The very first time I attended a
gathering at her home I said to myself: 'THIS is true Bohemianism.'”
Captain Dan was astonished.
“Why!” he exclaimed, “Miss Canby's folks came from Down-East
somewheres--Bangor, Maine, I think 'twas. She told me so, herself.”
The remark was received in various ways, by various individuals. Serena
frowned; Gertrude bit her lip; B. Phelps Black burst into a roar of
laughter.
“I did not mean my statement literally, Captain Dott,” explained Annette
in gracious toleration. “But when people are independent and free from
the usual conventionalities, as Miss Canby is, we speak of them as
Bohemians. It is an--er--a term among artists and musicians, I believe.”
Daniel understood little or nothing of this. He understood perfectly
well, however, that he had blundered somehow, a glance at his wife's
face told him that. Gertrude smiled at him kindly and observed: “Father
is like myself, his acquaintance in Bohemia has been limited.”
Captain Dan muttered that he guessed likely that was so, adding that
he had an Armenian steward once who was a pretty good fellow. Then he
subsided. Serena took up the conversation, changing the subject to the
ever fruitful one of her beloved Chapter. In a moment the two ladies
were deep in a discussion concerning the election of National officers
for the Legion, an election which was to take place in Boston a few
months later. Gertrude joined in the discussion, a proceeding which her
father noticed with apprehension.
Mr. Black accepted an invitation to smoke, and he and Captain Dan went
into the library. After the cigars were lighted, B. Phelps, lowering his
voice so as not to be heard in the adjoining room, said suddenly:
“Dan, is that daughter of yours going off her head like the rest of the
females?”
Daniel was indignant.
“Off her head!” he repeated. “Gertie! She's as smart and sensible a
girl as ever lived. I say so, even if she is my daughter. What are you
talkin' about?”
Mr. Black waved his hand. “Keep your hair on, Dan,” he counselled
pleasantly. “I like Gertrude, always have. I always thought she was as
sensible as she is pretty, and that's saying something. But what has got
into her since she got here in Scarford? You used to tell me she didn't
care anything for society and all the rest of it; now she seems to be as
daffy as her--well, as my wife, if you like that better.”
“Daffy! See here, Barney Black, I--”
“Hush! Don't begin to yell or we'll have that hen convention in the
parlor down on us. I'm not finding any fault with your daughter. I'm
only talking for her good and yours. What does she care about this
confounded Chapter foolishness?”
“She don't care nothin' about it.”
“Doesn't she? She seems to be mighty interested in that talk they're
having in there now. And she was as joyful as the rest of 'em over this
Canby woman's 'At Home.'”
The captain was quite aware of the apparent joy; and Gertrude's growing
interest in her mother's Chapter and its members was too obvious to be
denied. Nevertheless, he tried to deny it.
“Oh, that's nothin',” he declared. “She and Serena have always been
plannin' together over things, and this Chapter's like the rest, that's
all. As for the 'At Home,' why--why--well, Gertie's young, and young
folks generally like a good time.”
“A good time! Great Scott! Have you ever been to that Canby apartment
and seen the crowd that--No, of course you haven't. Dan, if my wife
heard me she'd take my head off, but you're an old friend of mine and
I like your daughter. Listen to me: Don't let Gertrude go to that 'At
Home' if you can help it.”
“Don't let her! How am I goin' to help it?”
“I don't know. Keep her in the house. Lock the door and hide the key.
I would. If she was my daughter I'd--I'd chloroform her. Hanged if I
wouldn't!”
Captain Dan's indignation was rapidly changing to alarm.
“See here, Barney,” he demanded, “what are you tryin' to say, anyhow?
What's wrong with this Miss Canby? Out with it.”
“Nothing's wrong with her, so far as I know. And yet there isn't
anything right. She's good enough, I guess, and she can play the piano
like a streak, but she's a fool. She and the gang she is with
are bleached-haired, frowzy-headed idiots, who hope they are
Bohemians--whatever that is. They like to do what they call unusual
things; they like to shock people--think it's smart. Don't let your
wife or Gertrude--Gertie, especially--get in with that crowd. They don't
belong there. And there's something else.”
He hesitated. Daniel, trembling with anxiety, urged him to continue.
“What is it?” he begged. “What is the somethin' else?”
“Oh, nothing. It isn't my business anyhow. I ought to keep still.”
“Keep still! After sayin' as much as you have? You go ahead or I'll
shake it out of you one word at a time. Heave ahead now! I'm waitin'.”
“Well, then, don't get mad. Remember I'm saying it merely as a friend.
Is Gertie engaged to be married?”
“Sartin she is. To a fine fellow, too. What of it?”
“Why, this: If she is engaged why is she trotting about with this
precious cousin of yours--this Percy Hungerford?”
Captain Dan started violently. He had asked himself that very question
many times during the week which had just passed. To have someone else
ask it, however, was too much. He bristled up like an angry cat.
“By Godfreys!” he sputtered, “what do you mean? Do you mean to hint--”
“I'm not hinting anything. Be quiet, or I'll stop right here. What do
you know about Hungerford, anyway? Why is he here at your house?”
“Here! Why--why, he's here 'cause we asked him to stay. He's on his
vacation and he's just makin' us a visit. As to knowin' anything about
him, what do you mean by that? Do YOU know anything about him?”
“Not much. Neither does anyone else; that's the queer part of it. While
old lady Dott--your Aunt Lavinia--occupied this house, he was here a
good deal. He didn't do anything then, except to be a general high-flyer
around town with a few chums like Monty Holway, who is another gay young
bird with money. After Mrs. Dott went abroad to live, he left Scarford
and went to Providence a while; after that to Boston and New York, and
various places. He had the reputation of being something of a sport,
and in with a fast set. Now, all at once, he comes back here and settles
down on--with you and your wife. What did he do that for?”
“I--I don't know. He didn't intend to settle. Says he didn't, anyway. As
for bein' a sport--well, he's told us about that, told Serena the whole
yarn. He owned up that he never took life very seriously while Aunt
Laviny lived; had plenty of money and didn't have to. But now it's
different. He's realized that he must work, same as other folks, and
he's doin' it. He works for some magazine or other, doin' what he calls
literary work.”
“Humph! What magazine is it?”
“I don't know. I never asked.”
“Well, all right. I tell you, honestly, Dan, there's a feeling that he
is working you and the family for easy marks. You give him a good home
and plenty to eat and smoke and it's a pretty soft thing for him. As to
work--Humph!”
Daniel hesitated now. He had had faint but uneasy suspicions along this
very line, although these, like other suspicions and misgivings, he had
kept to himself. And Serena was such a firm believer in Cousin Percy;
at the least hint against that young gentleman she flew to arms. The
captain remembered this and his strong sense of loyalty to his wife
caused him to remonstrate. He shook his head.
“No, no,” he said, “you're wrong there, Barney, sure you are. Why, Percy
has done a lot of writin' and such since he's been here. He goes to his
room 'most every afternoon to write, and he's helped Serena with her
Chapter papers and speeches more than you could imagine. As for Gertie's
trottin' around with him, that's just foolishness. She's gone to picture
shows and such when he asked her to, but that's only because she likes
such things and wanted company her own age. It's all foolishness, I
tell you. If anybody says 'tain't, you tell 'em I say they're lyin'. By
Godfreys! if they say it to me I'll--”
“There! there! Keep your hair on, I tell you.”
“'Tis on, what there is left of it. But, Barney, what sort of talk have
you been givin' me? If Hungerford ain't all right, how is it that
he knows so many folks in this town? How is it that he's invited
everywhere, to all sorts of places, into everybody's houses?
Invitations! Why, he gets more'n we do, and,” with a sigh, “land knows
that's enough, nowadays.”
B. Phelps grunted contemptuously. “It is easy enough to get
invitations,” he observed. “When you've been in this town as long as
I have you'll know that any young fellow, who is as good looking and
entertaining as he is, will be invited to all sorts of things. The girls
like him, so do their mothers--some of them. But there! I may be all
wrong. Anyhow, I mustn't stay with you any longer or Annette'll be
suspicious that you and I are knocking her dashed Chapter. I've told
you this for your own good. Gertrude's a bully girl; I always liked
her--wished a good many times I had a daughter like her. I should hate
to see her get in wrong like--well, like some people you and I know.
You keep her at home as much as you can. Good Lord, man!” with sudden
vehemence, “do you want your house to get to be an empty d----d hole,
only fit to sleep in, like--like--Yes, Annette, I'm coming.”
This conversation remained in Captain Dan's head for days. It disturbed
him greatly. Several times he made up his mind to speak to Serena
concerning it, but each time he changed his mind. He even thought of
writing a note to John Doane, urging the latter to run down to Scarford
for a few days, but he was fearful that to do this might be a mistake.
John would tell Gertrude, and she might not like it. Besides, Gertrude
had said that she expected John to come before very long. So Daniel did
nothing further than to remonstrate mildly concerning the acceptance of
Miss Canby's invitation. As he gave no reason for his objection, other
than the general one that he was tired and did not care about it, his
remonstrances were unheeded. He need not go unless he wished, said
Serena, she and Gertrude and Cousin Percy could go and he could stay at
home and rest. Gertrude said the same. When the evening came, the whole
family went, the captain included.
Annette had characterized the gifted Miss Canby as unusual, and the
social affairs given by her as unique. After the first half hour in the
“Bohemian” apartments, Daniel would have agreed with her, although his
opinion might have been more emphatically expressed. Miss Canby WAS
unusual, her apartments were unusual, and the “Bohemians” there gathered
most unusual of all.
Gertrude, strolling about in the company of a young gentleman--not
a Bohemian, but, like herself, merely a commonplace guest--found
her father seated in a corner, sheltered by a Japanese screen and
an imitation palm, and peering out at the assembled company with a
bewildered expression on his face.
“Well, Daddy,” she asked, “are you having a good time?”
Daniel, who had not noticed her approach, started and looked up.
“Hey?” he asked. “A good time! My soul and body! Yes, I'm havin' a good
time. I haven't had a better one since I went to the sideshow at the
circus. Who's that long-legged critter with the lay-down collar and the
ribbon necktie? That one over there, talking to the woman with the hair
that don't match. What ails him?”
Gertrude looked and laughed. “That is Mr. Abercrombie, the poet,” she
said. “Nothing ails him; he is a genius, that's all.”
“Humph! That must be bad enough, then. What--”
He stopped. His daughter's escort had caught his attention. The young
man's face was familiar.
“Why!” he faltered, “isn't this--”
“This is Mr. Holway, Daddy. I wanted you to meet him.”
Her tone was quite serious, but there was an odd expression in her eye.
Mr. Holway, blond, immaculate and blase, bowed. Then he, too, started.
“Eh!” he exclaimed. “Why, by Jove!”
Captain Dan nodded. “Yes,” he observed, quietly. “Well, I'm much obliged
to you, Gertie, but Mr. Holway and I have met before.”
Gertrude's surprise, real or assumed, was great.
“Have you?” she cried. “Why, how odd! When?”
Mr. Holway, himself, answered. He seemed confused and his explanation
was hurriedly given.
“Your father and I met one afternoon at--at the Palatine,” he stammered.
“I--I should have known. Tacks told me, but--but I had forgotten. I'm
ashamed of my part in that, Mr. Dott. I really am. I owe you an apology.
I hope you--I hope--”
Captain Dan nodded. “All right,” he said briefly. “Don't say any more
about it.”
“But--but I hope you and Miss Dott won't--won't think--”
“We won't. I won't, anyway. I stopped thinking about it long ago. Well,
Gertie, what have you been doin'? 'Most time to go home, is it?”
“Time to go home? Why, Daddy, we've just got here. We haven't been here
an hour yet.”
“Haven't we? I want to know! Seemed a good deal longer than that to me.
All right, don't you worry about me. I can stand it, I guess. Where's
your mother and--and Cousin Percy?”
“Mother is in the next room with Mrs. Lake and some more of the Chapter
members. Cousin Percy is--Oh, here he comes now.”
Hungerford appeared, strolling in their direction. He seemed surprised
when he saw his relatives in company with Mr. Holway.
“Hello, Monty!” he said. “You here? How are you?”
The two young men shook hands. Gertrude smiled upon them both.
“Father and Mr. Holway were renewing acquaintanceship,” she observed,
cheerfully. “It seems that they have met before.”
Cousin Percy's acknowledgment of this statement was a brief “Oh,
indeed!” He and his friend exchanged glances.
“The--er--performance is about to begin, I believe,” announced Mr.
Hungerford. “Our hostess has--er--reluctantly consented to be led to the
piano. Shall you and I adjourn to the next room, Cousin?”
Gertrude shook her head.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, “but Mr. Holway has been telling me the most
interesting stories about Scarford and the people in it, and I want to
hear the rest. He is dreadfully sarcastic; I should not listen, I know,
but I want to. Come, Mr. Holway.”
She moved away, the flattered “Monty” in her wake. Mr. Hungerford gazed
after them. He appeared not altogether pleased.
“Very sociable, chatty chap, that friend of yours, I should judge,”
observed Captain Dan drily.
“Um-hm!” grunted Cousin Percy. “Been chatting to you, has he?”
“No-o, not much this time. But you remember I've had the pleasure
before.”
Mr. Hungerford doubtless remembered; he looked as if he did. Then
he, too, strolled away. The captain, left alone, indulged in a quiet
chuckle.
Miss Canby's rendition on the piano, of what she was pleased to call
“A sweet little thing of Tschaikovsky's--one of my favorites,” was
enthusiastically applauded, and she obliged with another, and still
another. Then Mr. Abercrombie was prevailed upon to read one of his own
outpourings of genius, a poem called “The Tigress,” in which someone,
presumably the author, described the torments involved in his adoration
of a feminine person with “jetty brows and lambent eyes,” whose kiss was
like “a viper's sting” and who had, so to speak, raised the very dickens
with his feelings. He read it with passionate fervor, and Captain Dan,
listening, decided that the Tigress must be a most unpleasant person.
However, judging by the acclaim of the rest of the audience, she was
a huge success, and the poet was coaxed into reading again, this time
something which he had labeled “Soul Beams,” and in which “love” rhymed
with “dove” and “heart” with “dart” and “bliss” with “kiss” in truly
orthodox fashion. Mr. Abercrombie's poetic gems were not appreciated by
the mercenary and groveling minions who edited magazines, but here,
amid his fellow Bohemians, they were more than appreciated, a fact which
their creator announced gratified him more than he could express.
And yet, he seemed to have little difficulty and less hesitation in
expressing most things.
Daniel was not enthusiastic over the poems. He could not understand a
great deal of them, but he understood quite enough. When B. Phelps Black
winked at him from his seat at the other side of the room, he did not
return the wink, although he knew perfectly well what it meant.
The poems were bad enough, according to his figuring, but when Miss
Beatrice Dusante tripped into the circle to slip and twist and slide
and gyrate in “one of her delightful Grecian dances,” he found himself
looking about for a convenient exit. Discovering none he remained where
he was and blushed for the company.
The Bohemians, however, did not blush; neither, to his amazement, did
Serena, who looked on and applauded with the rest. He found some comfort
in the absence of his daughter, who was not among the seated guests,
but, at last, even this comfort was dispelled. He caught a glimpse of
Gertrude, still accompanied by the attentive Mr. Holway, standing in
the back row. He tried to catch her eye and, by frowns and shakes of
the head, to indicate his disapproval of the dance and her presence as
a witness. He did not succeed in attracting her attention, but when, a
moment later, she and her escort moved off, he was somewhat relieved.
Gertrude looked as if she did not care for Miss Dusante's dancing any
more than he did. Mr. Hungerford, also, did not appear interested. He
was looking at Miss Dott and “Monty,” and there was a frown on his face.
Upon their return, after they were together in the library at home,
Daniel's shocked indignation burst forth.
“Well!” he declared, “that's enough. That's the limit, that is! What
kind of a gang IS that, anyway?”
His wife regarded him with astonishment. Gertrude, after one glance at
his face, turned and walked to the other side of the room, where she
busied herself with a book on the table. Cousin Percy smiled broadly.
“Gang!” repeated Serena. “Gang! Why, what are you talking about,
Daniel?”
“I'm talkin' about that gang at that Canby woman's place to-night.
I never saw such a brazen gang anywhere. Haven't they got ANY
respectability? How'd they come to let that dancin' thing in there?
Couldn't they see her before she got in? Couldn't they stop her? Why--”
Serena interrupted. “Stop her!” she repeated. “How could they stop her?
She was an invited guest.”
“Who invited her? That's what I want to know. Who invited her?”
“Miss Canby, I suppose. She is a friend of hers.”
“A friend! A FRIEND!”
“Yes. Now, Daniel, don't be silly. I know what you mean, and I must say
I sympathize with you just a little. Annette explained to me afterwards
though, so I suppose it is all right. Annette says that this Miss
Dusante's dancing is all the rage now. She has made a study of the
ancient Grecian dances and she does them everywhere. She is paid high
prices for it, too.”
“I don't doubt it. I should think she'd want to be. Did you see the way
she was dressed? I never--”
“Hush, Daniel! That was the old Greek costume. Miss Canby told me all
about it; the old Greeks used to dress like that.”
“They did! Then it didn't take 'em long. Brazen thing! Why!” with a
sudden turn upon his daughter, “Gertie--Gertie Dott, stop fussin' with
that book and listen to me. You were there; I saw you lookin' on. YOU
didn't like that Greek dancin', did you?”
Gertrude hesitated. Her cheeks were red and, for a moment, she seemed to
find it difficult to speak. Then, after a quick look at her mother, she
answered, calmly:
“Like it! Why not, Daddy? It is all the rage, just as Mother says,
and it is certainly graceful. I rather think I should like to learn it
myself. I understand Miss Dusante gives lessons.”
Daniel's mouth opened and remained open. Cousin Percy stared at the
speaker. Even Serena, defender of the dances of the ancient Greeks,
looked shocked.
“Why, Gertie!” she cried. “Gertie! You! the idea!”
“Why not, Mother?”
“Why not! I should think you would know why not. I never heard you speak
like that before.”
“I never saw any dances like those before. I have heard about them,
of course, but I never saw them. We never did--you or father or any of
us--a great many things that we are doing now. We are learning all the
time; that's what you told me, Mother. I never went to a Bohemian 'At
Home' before.”
Serena's eyes snapped. “Well, you'll never go to another one,” she
declared, “if it's going to have this effect on you.”
The young lady smiled. “Why, of course I shall,” she cried. “I want to
learn, just as you do, Mother. And I mean to. Good-night!”
She left the room and they heard her ascending the stairs. Daniel and
Serena looked at each other. Cousin Percy looked at them both.
Captain and Mrs. Dott had a long talk before retiring. The captain
derived some satisfaction from the talk; it seemed to him that their
daughter's declaration of independence had startled Serena somewhat. She
even went so far as to admit that, in spite of Mrs. Black's explanations
and gracious commendations, she, herself, had not been impressed by Miss
Canby's guests. She and Gertrude would have an interview in the morning,
she declared.
Captain Dan waited hopefully for the result of that interview. The hope
was crushed when Serena reported to him.
“It is all right, Daniel,” said Mrs. Dott. “I guess Gertie didn't
really mean what she said about taking lessons of the Dusante woman.
She thought the dances graceful, and they were, of course. But Gertie is
older now--yes, she is older, and she expects to have her own way more
than she has had it. She said a lot of things to me, things that she
hasn't said before. It seems that when she first came home she was
inclined to think I had exaggerated when I wrote her about the lovely
people here in Scarford, and the Chapter, and the brilliant women in it.
Now, she sees I was right. She has helped me a good deal already with my
Chapter work, and she means to do more. She is going to join the Chapter
herself. She--why, what's the matter?”
Daniel had made a choking noise in his throat; he appeared to be
strangling.
“Noth--nothin',” he gasped. “Nothin' much. I'm all right. But--but you
said--why, how can Gertie join the Chapter? She ain't goin' to stay
here. She's goin' back to college soon as her vacation's over.”
Serena shook her head. There was just a shade of doubt, almost of
trouble, in her voice as she answered.
“No-o,” she said, “no, Daniel, she isn't. She isn't going back any more.
She thinks it isn't necessary.”
“Not necessary! Why, how you talk, Serena! Not necessary to finish out
her last term! What do you mean? One of the things that troubled me
most, back there in Trumet before we was rich, was that I might not
afford for her to finish out at that college, and now, when I can, she
ain't goin'. I say she is. I say she's got to.”
“I don't believe that will make any difference, Daniel. She seems
to have made up her mind. I'm kind of sorry, I must say, but she is
obstinate. She says it is so much more interesting here that she is
going to stay. You can talk to her, if you want to, but I don't think it
will do any good.”
Serena was right; although Captain Dan did talk to his daughter his
arguments and persuasions were quite useless.
“No, Daddy,” said Gertrude, “I am going to stay right here. I told you
that if I were needed I should come home. I have come home and I am
needed. I shall not go back. It is only the last half term, anyway.”
“Yes, but then's when the girls have all their best times, all the
dances and--and entertainments and society times. You said so. Do you
want to miss all those?”
Gertrude smiled. “Oh,” she observed, “I expect to have a great many
'society times,' as you call them, right here in Scarford. There seems
to be no lack of them, and Mother is decidedly in the swim. It's no use,
Daddy; my mind is made up. Don't you worry, it is all right.”
“Well--well, I--I must say--See here, are you really going to join that
Chapter thing?”
“Yes.”
“You are! After all you said--”
“Yes, no matter what I may have said.”
“By--by time! I don't know what to do with you. I--I set a lot of store
by you, Gertie. I kind of banked on you. And now--”
Gertrude's expression changed. She patted his cheek.
“Keep on banking on me, Daddy dear,” she whispered, “perhaps I'm not
altogether hopeless, even yet.”
But her father, for once, refused to believe her.
“I don't like it,” he declared. “And other folks don't like it, either.
Why, Barney Black got after me only the other day about you. He wanted
to know why you--you, an engaged girl--was cruisin' around so much with
this Cousin Percy of ours. He thought 'twas queer. I said--”
Gertrude rose to her feet. Her arm was snatched from the captain's
shoulder so quickly that he jumped.
“Daddy!” she cried, her cheeks blazing, “do you mean to say that you
have been discussing me with--with Mr. Black?”
“I didn't start it, he did. He said--”
“I don't care what he said. Oh, the impertinence of it! And you
listened! listened and believed--”
“I didn't say I believed it.”
“You did believe it, though. I can see you did. I shan't try to comfort
you any more. You deserve all that is coming to you. And,” with a
deliberate nod, “it is coming.”
“Comin'! It's HERE! Gertie, there's another thing: What about John?
What do you think John would say if he knew you weren't goin' back to
college?”
Gertrude looked at him. Her lips twitched.
“Oh,” she said, mischievously, “as to that--well, Daddy, you see, he
DOESN'T know it.”
That afternoon Daniel wrote a letter. He said nothing to anyone, not
even Serena, about the letter, but wrote it in the solitude of the
library and posted it with his own hands. Just before sealing the
envelope he added this postscript: “Whether you come or not, don't tell
a soul that I wrote you this. And, if you do come, just let them think
it was all on your own hook. THIS IS IMPORTANT.”
On Saturday evening there was to be a meeting of the Chapter, and
on Tuesday Serena returned from committee with the joyful news that
Gertrude was to be admitted to membership at that meeting. The
young lady expressed herself as delighted. Cousin Percy extended
congratulations. Captain Dan said nothing. Later, he visited Azuba in
the kitchen, and there he received another shock.
Azuba was not, as usual, busy with her cooking or scrubbing. She was
seated in a chair by the window, reading a paper. She looked up as he
entered, but immediately resumed her reading. The captain waited for her
to speak. As a general thing he did not have to wait.
“Hello, Zuba,” he hailed.
Azuba turned a page of the paper. She did not answer.
“Hello!” he hailed again. “What's the matter, Zuba? Gone into a trance,
have you?”
“Hey?” Azuba did look up then, but at once looked down again. “Hey?” she
repeated. “No, I ain't in no trance. I'm readin', that's all.”
“I should think that was enough, if it fixes you so you can't speak to
anybody. Must be mighty interestin' readin'.”
“Hey? Interestin'? I guess 'tis interestin'! It's more'n that, it's
upliftin', too. I'm just beginnin' to realize what I am.”
“That so? Well, what are you?”
“I'm a woman, that's what I am.”
She made the declaration with the air of one imparting news of a
startling discovery. Daniel laughed.
“Is that so!” he exclaimed. “Well, well! I want to know! I always
suspected it, Zuba, but I'm glad you told me, just the same. Does it say
so in that paper?”
Azuba rose from her chair. She did not laugh; she was intensely serious.
“It says a lot of things,” she announced, “a lot of things I never
thought of afore. I don't mean that exactly. I've thought of 'em, but I
never knew how to make anything out of my thoughts. I just kept thinkin'
and let it go at that. Now, I'm beginnin' to realize. I'm a woman, I
am, a free woman. That paper is for free women. Have you read it, Cap'n
Daniel?”
Captain Dan took the paper which she extended to him at arm's length. He
recognized it immediately. It was “The Woman's Voice,” official organ of
the National Guild of Ladies of Honor. Serena was a subscriber.
He glanced at the paper and tossed it on the table.
“Yes,” he said shortly, “I've read some of it.”
Azuba seized the discarded journal as if it were a precious treasure, a
thing to be treated tenderly and with reverence.
“Some of it!” she repeated. “Humph! I'd read all of it, if I was you.
'Twould do the men good if they was made to read every number ten times
over. It's a wonderful paper. It's opened MY eyes, I can tell you that.”
It had, apparently, opened her mouth as well, although to do that
required no great urging at any time. She went on to preach the glories
of the “Voice,” and concluded by reading an editorial which, like Mrs.
Lake's addresses at Chapter meetings, contained a great many words and,
to the captain's mind, little understanding.
He listened, fidgeting impatiently, to perhaps two-thirds of the
editorial, and then he interrupted.
“Hold on! Heave to!” he ordered. “For the land sakes, Zuba, what's set
you goin' like this? Are YOU goin' to--to--”
“To what? Am I goin' to what?”
“Are you goin' to 'advance' or whatever you call it? What ails all you
women, anyway?”
“What ails us? Hain't I been readin' you what ails us?”
“You've been readin' a whole lot, but I've heard it all before. You want
to be 'free'! Confound it, you ARE free, ain't you? You want to take
your place in the world! Why, you've had the front place ever since Eve
got Adam to eat the apple. She was skipper of that craft, wasn't she!
And us men--most of us, anyhow--have been fo'mast hands ever since. What
is it you want? Want to vote? Go ahead and vote. I'M willin'.”
But Azuba laughed scornfully.
“Vote!” she repeated. “I don't care whether I vote or not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“We want--” Azuba hesitated, “we want--what this paper says we want.
And,” with determination, “we're goin' to have it.”
“All right, have it, then! Meantime, let's have dinner. It's pretty nigh
half-past five, and the table ain't set. And,” with a sniff, “there's
somethin' burnin' somewheres, I smell it.”
This statement had an effect. Azuba dropped the precious paper and
sprang to open the oven door.
“Well!” she declared, “it's all right. 'Twas that cranberry pie, and
'twas only beginnin' to scorch. It's all right.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, say, Zuba, you take my advice; you're a
practical, sensible woman, I always said so. Don't you get to be silly,
at your age.”
It was an impolitic remark. Azuba bristled.
“At my age!” she repeated. “Humph! I ain't so much older than some folks
in this kitchen, nor in the rest of the house, either. What do you mean
by silly?”
“I mean--I mean--well, I mean don't you get to joinin' lodges and
readin' papers and racin' out every night in the week to somethin' or
other. It ain't worth while. It's silly--just silly.”
“Oh, is it! Well, other women do it. Your wife's been doin' it ever
since we got here. And now Gertie's startin' in. You always made your
brags that she was about as sensible, smart a girl as ever drawed
breath. _I_ ain't got money; nobody's left ME a cart load of dollars and
a swell front house. But I've got rights and feelin's. I'm a woman, a
free woman, and if it ain't silly for Mrs. Dott and Gertie to want to
advance and--and so on, I cal'late 'tain't silly for me either. Perhaps
you'd like to have me tell Serena that you said she was silly. Shall I?”
Daniel did not answer, but his look was answer sufficient. Azuba smiled
triumphantly.
“Practical,” she sneered. “No, Cap'n Daniel, I ain't been practical so
far, but I'm goin' to be. I'm a-goin' to be. You watch me.”
Her employer's guns were spiked. He marched out of the kitchen, slamming
the door viciously. The library was tenanted by Cousin Percy, who was
taking a nap on the lounge. Upstairs, Gertrude was helping her mother
with a “report” of some kind. Hapgood, the butler, was in the hall, and
he bowed respectfully.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Did you wish anything, sir?”
“No,” snarled Captain Dan, and went out for a walk. This was the last
straw. If Azuba was going crazy the situation was hopeless indeed. And
he had received no reply to his letter.
Hapgood, left alone in the hall, grinned, strolled into the library and,
regardless of Mr. Hungerford's presence, filled his pockets with cigars
from his employer's box. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Azuba was busy
getting dinner. At intervals she burst out laughing.
That evening Mr. “Monty” Holway called.