The bewilderment and astonishment remained with the captain for some
time, just as his daughter's apparent light heartedness remained with
her. Holway's call was longer than usual, lasting until Serena, escorted
by Mr. Hungerford, returned from Mrs. Black's, where they had been
discussing the all-important election. Hungerford and his friend greeted
each other with a marked lack of warmth; in fact, they scarcely spoke.
Serena was too tired to talk, but Gertrude talked enough for all. She
chatted and laughed with almost feverish gaiety until the caller, after
many false starts and with evident reluctance, finally tore himself
away. Then her manner changed, she was silent and thoughtful and, soon
afterward, said goodnight and went up to her room.
Captain Dan forebore to trouble his wife with the news of the telegram
announcing John Doane's departure for the West, and the reception of
that news by Gertrude. After hearing Serena's complaints of her “nerves”
and weariness, he decided that there was trouble sufficient for that
night. But the next morning he spoke of it. Serena was surprised, of
course, and worried likewise.
“You're right, Daniel,” she said, “I am afraid you're right. She and
John must have had some disagreement. I suppose it is only a lover's
quarrel--young engaged people are always having foolish quarrels--and
they always get over them and make up again. But, oh, dear! why did they
quarrel just now? Haven't I got enough on my mind without fretting about
them? Well, I'll talk to Gertie this very forenoon.”
She did, but the talk was unsatisfactory. When Daniel, waiting anxiously
to learn what had taken place, questioned her she shook her head.
“I can't make Gertie out,” she declared pettishly. “She acts so queer.
Doesn't want to talk about John at all. Says it is all right, and why
should I worry if she doesn't? And she is so different, somehow. She was
willing enough to discuss my chances for the vice-presidency. She asked
twenty questions about that and declares she is going to help me. And
yesterday, when I wanted her to help, she didn't take any interest. I
never saw such a change. And she is so--so fidgety and--and nervous and
high-spirited and silly. She laughed at nothing and kept jumping up and
walking about and sitting down again. I declare! it made ME jumpy just
to look at her.”
Gertrude's conduct was certainly surprising. It caused Captain Dan to
feel “jumpy” more than once. Her determination to help her mother in the
campaign she put into immediate practice. She called Cousin Percy into
council, borrowed Serena's list of Chapter members, and the pair spent
hours checking that list together. Then Gertrude announced that she was
going to make some calls. She made them and returned, exultant.
“I think I have made two converts this afternoon,” she said. “I am
almost sure they will vote for you, Mother. You and I must go to
Mrs. Black's to-night and talk it over with her. We MUST; it is very
important.”
Serena, who had hoped for an early bedtime, expressed weariness, and
protested, but her protests were overruled. They went to the Blacks' and
Captain Dan and Mr. Hungerford went, also. Annette was delighted to see
them. Mr. Black succeeded in repressing his joy.
“For the Lord's sake, Dan!” he exclaimed, when, he and the captain were
alone, “isn't there EVER going to be any let-up to this tom-foolery? Are
these women of ours going stark crazy?”
Daniel gloomily replied that he didn't know.
“You're worse off than I am,” continued B. Phelps. “There's two lunatics
in your family and only one in mine. Your daughter's just as bad as her
mother, every bit--worse, if anything. But, it seems to agree with HER.
I never saw her so lively or so pretty either. Humph! your pet cousin
there is badly gone, or I'm no judge. Well, you remember what I told you
about him.”
Daniel nodded. He was too depressed for words.
“All right, it's your funeral, not mine. But, say! there's one ray of
hope. The whole crowd may be licked to death in this election. If they
are, my wife says she'll resign from the Chapter and never speak to one
of the bunch again. It sounds too good to be true, but it may be. It's
enough to make a fellow hop in and do some political work himself--for
the other side. What?”
The political work continued, mornings and afternoons, evenings and far
into the nights. Serena was in it, Gertrude was in it, and Cousin
Percy and Mr. Holway were in it because she was. Monty's calls were of
frequent occurrence. Mr. Hungerford and his erstwhile chum did not speak
to each other at all now. But at receptions and teas and dances and
musicals and committee meetings one or the other was on hand at Miss
Dott's elbow. And Gertrude was very gracious to them both; not more to
one than the other, but exceptionally kind and agreeable to each.
The social affairs were of almost as frequent occurrence as the
political meetings. Gertrude accepted all invitations and urged her
mother to accept.
“You must, Mother,” she declared. “Now is the time when you can't afford
to offend or neglect anyone. You may need their votes and influence.”
“But, Gertie,” pleaded poor, tired Serena, “I can't go everywhere.”
“You must. If this vice-presidency is worth all the world to you, as you
say it is, you must sacrifice everything else to get it.”
“But, I can't! I'm almost worn out. I--I--oh, sometimes I feel almost
willing to give it all up and go back to--to--almost anywhere, even
Trumet, if I could rest there.”
“You don't mean that, Mother.”
“No; no, of course I don't.”
“Because if you do, why--well, that is different. If you WANT to go back
to dead and alive old Trumet--”
“I don't. I--I wouldn't for anything. I shouldn't think you, of all
people, would hint at such a thing. You! When I have climbed so high
already; when our social position has become what it is. You! talking of
going back to Trumet.”
“I'm not. You mentioned it; I didn't. I'm having a beautiful time. I
just love our social position. The Blacks and the Kellys and--er--that
Miss Dusante! Oh, I adore them. I wouldn't leave such cultured people
for anything. And you enjoy it so, Mother. You look so happy.”
Was there a trace of sarcasm in this outburst? Serena was, for the
moment, suspicious. She tried her hardest to look very happy indeed.
“I am happy, of course,” she declared.
“I know it. And we want to keep on being happy, don't we. So we must not
decline anyone's invitation. We must go, go, go, all the time.”
“But some of the invitations are from people I scarcely know at all. And
some I don't like.”
“That makes no difference. They may be of value to you in your campaign,
or socially, or somehow. Don't you see, Mother? In politics or society
one wishes to advance, to climb higher all the time. And to do that
one must use one's acquaintances as rounds in the ladder. Use them; get
something from them; pretend to love them, no matter whether you really
hate them or not. They may hate you, but they want to use you. That's
part of the game, Mother.”
This was worldly advice to be given by a young lady scarcely out of
college. And it sounded so unlike Gertrude. But, then, Gertrude had
changed, was changing more and more daily.
“We don't entertain enough,” went on the adviser. “We should be
giving some affair or other at least once a week. Invite everybody you
know--everyone but the Lake crowd, of course. I'll make out a list of
eligibles to-day and we'll give an 'At Home' next week.”
“But, Gertie--the expense. It costs so dreadfully. We're not rich; that
is, not very rich.”
“No matter. Everyone thinks we are. If they didn't, most of them would
cut us dead to-morrow. We must pretend to be very rich. I'll make out
the list. Mr. Holway will help me. He is coming to call this evening.”
Serena looked more troubled than ever.
“Gertie,” she said earnestly, “I think I ought--yes, I am going to warn
you against that Mr. Holway. I don't like your having him call or being
seen in his company.”
“You don't! I am surprised. I'm sure he is very polite and agreeable. He
belongs to the best club and he dresses well, and as to society--why, he
is in the very heart of it; our kind of society, I mean.”
“I know, I know. But--well, Cousin Percy doesn't speak well of him. He
says he is a very fast young man.”
Gertrude bit her lip. “Did Percy say that!” she exclaimed. “How odd!
Why, Monty--I mean Mr. Holway--said almost the same thing about him. And
I KNOW you like Cousin Percy, Mother.”
Mrs. Dott scarcely knew how to answer. As a matter of fact she did not
like their aristocratic relative quite as well as she had at
first. There were certain things about him, little mannerisms and
condescensions, which jarred upon her. He was so very, very much at home
in the family now; in fact, he seemed to take his permanent membership
in that family for granted. He had ceased to refer to himself as being
on a vacation, and, as for his “literary work,” he appeared to have
forgotten that altogether.
But these were not the real reasons for Serena's growing dislike and
uneasiness. She hinted at the real reason in her next remark.
“I don't think,” she said, “I don't think, Gertie, that you and he
should be so much together. You are engaged to be married, you know, and
John--”
Gertrude interrupted. She ignored the mention of Mr. Doane's name.
“Oh, Cousin Percy is all right,” she said lightly. “He's good company.
Of course he may be something of a sport, but that is to be expected.
The trouble with you and me, Mother, is that we are too old-fashioned;
we are not sporty enough.”
“GERTIE!” Serena's horror was beyond words.
Gertrude laughed. “But that can be mended,” she went on. “Mother, you
should learn to drink cocktails and tango. I think I shall. Everybody's
doing it, doing it, doing it!”
Humming this spirited ditty, which the street pianos had rendered
popular, and smiling over her shoulder at her mother, she “one-stepped”
from the room. Serena put both hands to her head. Her “nerves” were more
troublesome than ever the remainder of that day.
There were enough troubles to rack even a healthy set of nerves. The
domestic situation was decidedly complicated. No successor to the
departed Hapgood had, as yet, been selected. Mr. Hungerford was
partially responsible for this. At first, when told of the butler's
misbehavior and its consequences, he had expressed sorrow, but had
advised forgiveness and the reinstallation of the discharged one.
The crime was, after all, not so very serious. Most butlers exacted
commissions from tradespeople, so he had been told. Of course it was all
wrong, a pernicious system and all that, but they did do it. And many
employers winked at the system. Hapgood was an exceptional fellow,
really quite exceptional. Aunt Lavinia had treated him as one of the
family, almost. Captain Dan, to whom these statements were made, was
stubbornly indignant. He wouldn't wink at a thief, and he wouldn't fire
him and then hire him over again, either. If “that everlastin' sneak
showed his white-washed face on the premises again, he'd have that face
damaged.” All the captain hoped for was a chance to inflict the damage.
So Cousin Percy, finding Daniel obdurate, tried his influence upon
Serena, whom he regarded, and justly, as the real head of the house. But
Serena, too, refused to consider Mr. Hapgood's re-employment. She had
talked with Azuba, and Azuba had declared that she should leave in “just
about two-thirds of a jiffy” if the butler came back. “When he comes
into my kitchen,” she said, “I get out. I should hate to quit the folks
I'd worked for the biggest part of my life, but there's some things I
won't stand. He's one of 'em. Don't talk to me about HIM!”
Mr. Hapgood was not re-engaged nor forgiven, and Hungerford kindly
volunteered to find a competent successor. He would make some inquiries
among his friends, the right sort of people, he said, and his manner
indicated that the said people were accustomed to employing butlers in
droves.
Azuba, therefore, was left with all the domestic cares upon her hands.
These hands were quite competent, had they been disengaged, but just
now they were full. Azuba was “advancing,” just as she had proclaimed
to Captain Dan that she intended to do. She read “The Voice” and
kindred literature a great deal, and quoted from her readings at every
opportunity. Denied admittance to the Chapter, in spite of Gertrude's
efforts in her behalf--Gertrude had warmly advocated the formation of
a Servants' Branch--she had made search on her own hook and suddenly
announced that she had found what she was looking for. This, so she
affirmed, was an organization called “The Free Laborers' Band,” and it
met in a hall somewhere or other, though no one but its members seemed
to know just where that hall was. Serena made inquiries, but neither
servants nor mistresses had ever heard of the “Band.” Gertrude, when she
heard of it, at first seemed to be much amused, and laughed heartily.
Then she became very grave and declared it a splendid thing and that she
was delighted because Azuba had found her opportunity. She was entitled
to that opportunity, as was every free woman, and certainly neither
Gertrude or her mother, being “free women” themselves, must offer
objection or permit mere household drudgery to interfere.
So Azuba “advanced” and preached and went out at night and occasionally
during the day. Gertrude and Serena went out all the time, when they
were not entertaining themselves. Life became a never-ending round
of politics and society functions, followed by, on Mrs. Dott's part,
sleepless nights and “nerves” and fretful worriment concerning Gertrude.
Gertrude did not appear to worry. She grew gayer and more gay, more
careless in her manner and more slangy in her speech. Mr. Holway
continued to call and Cousin Percy to dance solicitous attendance. John
Doane's name was never mentioned in his fiancee's presence. She would
not speak, or permit others to speak, of him.
And then Mr. Holway ceased to call. His final call was a lengthy
one, and he and Gertrude were alone during the latter part of it. The
following day Daniel met him on the street and was barely recognized.
The captain was not greatly troubled at the slight--he did not care
greatly for the lively Monty--but he was surprised. When he mentioned
the meeting to his daughter the young lady smiled, but offered no
explanation. Her father did not press the point. As Holway came no
more and it became apparent that he was not coming, the captain was
satisfied.
Gertrude's strange behavior alarmed and troubled him, but his wife's ill
health and her worn, weary expression alarmed him more. He was actually
frightened concerning her.
“Oh, Serena,” he begged, “what makes you do it? It isn't worth it.
You're killin' yourself. Let's give it up and go somewhere and rest. The
Queen of Sheba's job ain't worth it, let alone just bein' vice-president
of Scarford Chapter.”
But Serena shook her head. “I can't give it up, Daniel,” she declared
hysterically. “I--I think I would if I could. I really do. Sometimes I
feel as if I would give up everything just to be at peace and happy and
contented again.”
“You bet!” with enthusiasm. “So would I. And we were contented at
Trumet, wasn't we? That is, I was; and you was enough sight better
contented than you are now.”
“I know, I know. But I can't give it up, Daniel. Don't you see? I can't!
I mustn't think of myself at all. See how loyally Annette and the rest
have stood by me. Their splendid loyalty is the one thing that makes it
worth while. I must keep up and fight on for their sakes. I must be as
true to them as they are to me. Would they desert me for anything? No!
And I shan't desert them. I am going to be elected. I know it. After
that, after the election is over, I may--I might, perhaps--”
“You might go somewhere with me and have a good, comfortable time. All
right, we will. And Gertie can go, too.”
The mention of her daughter's name seemed to be more disturbing than all
the rest. Serena burst into tears.
“She wouldn't go, Daniel!” she cried. “You know she wouldn't. She--she
is going crazy, I do believe. She is wild about society and bridge--she
told me only yesterday she wasn't sure that playing for money was wrong.
All my friends and her friends did it and why shouldn't we? And she
dances all these dreadful new dances and uses slang and--and--oh, she
is--I don't know WHAT she will be if this keeps on. Why does she do it?
WHO is responsible?”
Daniel did not answer. He had a feeling that he could, without moving
from his chair, lay a hand upon the person chiefly responsible, but he
kept that feeling to himself.
“She'd go, if we wanted her to,” he affirmed stoutly.
“No, she wouldn't.”
“By time! she would. You and I would make her. I couldn't do it alone,
I know that, but if you'll say the word and stand by me she'll go, if
I have to--to give her ether and take her while she's asleep. Say the
word, that's all I want you to do.”
Serena did not say the word, not then. She continued to moan and wring
her hands.
“She's all wrong, Daniel!” she cried. “She does wrong things. She
is with--with Cousin Percy too much. He and she are getting to be
altogether too friendly. She has dropped John for good, I'm afraid. Oh,
suppose she should--”
The captain's anger burst forth at this expression of his own secret
dread.
“Suppose she should marry that Hungerford, you mean!” he cried. “She
won't! She won't! She's too sensible, anyway; but, if she should, I--I'd
rather see her dead. Yes, sir, dead!”
“So had I. But Cousin Percy--”
“D--n Cousin Percy!”
For once his profanity met with no rebuke. Serena did not appear to
notice it.
“He is not the right sort of man for her,” she declared. “He is polite
and aristocratic and he has helped us in society; but he is dissipated
and fast, I'm sure of it. He has been out a great deal lately and comes
home late, and I have heard him come up the stairs as if--as if--Oh, WHY
did you insist on his staying here, living here with us?”
“Why did _I_--Humph! Well, that's all right. That's all right, Serena.
You back me up in that, too, and he'll go out a sight quicker than
he came in. I'll see that he does. He'll fly. I can handle MEN even
yet--though I don't seem to be good for much else.”
But Mrs. Dott wouldn't hear of it. They couldn't PUT him out, she
declared; think of the scandal! No, no, no! The interview ended by
the captain's dismissal and Serena's getting ready for that evening's
committee meeting.
It developed that Azuba's “Band” met on that same evening. Gertrude
and her mother had gone--they were to dine with the committee at
Annette's--and when Daniel, at seven o'clock, shouted for his dinner, no
dinner was ready.
“I can't stop to fuss with dinner,” said Azuba firmly. “I've got to get
ready for my Band meetin'. All the afternoon I've been fussin' with my
speech--I'm goin' to speak to-night--and now it's time for me to change
my clothes. I'm sorry, Cap'n Dott; I never neglected you afore; but this
time I've got to. There's plenty to eat in the ice-chest and you must
wait on yourself. No use to talk! I ain't got time to listen.”
Captain Dan was furious. This was a trifle too much.
“You get that dinner!” he roared. “Get it, or you'll never get another
meal in this house!”
“Won't I? Why not? Mrs. Dott said I might go to this meetin'. She'll
understand.”
“By time, Zuba Ginn, I'll discharge you! I will! I don't care if you
have been with us since Methusalem's time. You old foolhead! At your
age--”
“I'm no older than your wife, Dan'l Dott. And you can't discharge me,
neither. I wouldn't go. I'm no Hapgood. I've got rights and I'll stand
up for 'em. You ain't the boss, I guess. If Serena discharges me, all
right; but she won't. There! don't talk to ME. I've got other fish to
fry.”
She marched up the back stairs. Daniel sprang after her, but she closed
the door in his face. For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned back
and, re-entering the kitchen, began to pace up and down, his hands in
his pockets.
He strode from the sink to the back door, wheeled and strode back
again. There was an odd expression on his face. He frowned, muttered to
himself, whistled, smiled, and once broke into a short laugh. But, as he
continued the pacing, gradually the frown and smile disappeared and his
expression became one of grim determination. His lips closed, his eyes
puckered, and his stride lengthened. His heels struck the oilcloth with
sharp, quick thumps. If one of his former shipmates, a foremast hand
on the schooner Bluebird, could have seen him then, that foremast hand
would have interpreted his behavior as a forerunner of trouble. He
would have known that the “old man” was making up his mind to a definite
course of action and that, having made it up, he would keep to that
course so long as he could see or breathe.
And that interpretation would have been correct. Captain Dan was
desperate. He had made up his mind to fight, to “put his foot down” at
last. Serena's ill health, Gertrude's conduct, the aggravating insolence
of Cousin Percy, all these had helped to spur him to this pitch. And
now came Azuba's open rebellion and her declaration that his command
amounted to nothing, that he was not the “boss.” It was true, that was
the humiliating fact which stung. He was not the boss; he was not even
cabin boy, and he knew it. But, to be openly told so, and by his cook,
was a little too much. The worm will turn--at least we are told that it
will--and Daniel Dott was turning.
He jerked his hands from his pockets and opened his mouth.
“Azuba!” he roared. “You, Zuba, come here!”
Azuba did not answer. She was in her room at the top of the house and,
of course, did not hear the shout. Before the captain could repeat it
someone knocked at the back door.
The knock was no hesitating, irresolute tap. It was an emphatic, solid
thump. Daniel heard it, but, in his present state of mind, was in no
mood to heed.
“Zuba!” he repeated. “Zuba Ginn, are you comin' here or shall I come
after you? ZUBA!”
The back door was merely latched, not locked. Now it was thrown open, a
heavy step sounded in the entry and a voice, a man's voice, said, in
a shout almost as loud as the captain's, “Yes, Zuba; that's what I was
cal'latin' to say, myself. Who--why, hello, Cap'n Dan! How are you?”
Daniel turned. A man had entered the kitchen, a big man, wearing a cloth
cap, and carrying in one hand a lumpy oilcloth valise. He tossed the
valise to the floor, grinned, and extended a hand.
“Well, Cap'n Dan,” he observed, “you look as natural as life. _I_ must
have changed, I cal'late. Don't you know me?”
The captain's eyes were opening wider and wider. “Labe!” he exclaimed;
“Laban Ginn! Where in the world did you come from?”
The person who had so unceremoniously entered the kitchen was Azuba's
husband, mate of the tramp steamer.