Mr. Holway's call was, ostensibly, a call upon the Dott family in general, but it was to Gertrude that he addressed most of his conversation. The young lady was very affable and gracious. She expressed herself as glad to see him, and she appeared to be. “Monty” was a voluble person, and he talked a great deal, although a critic might possibly have considered his remarks more remarkable for quantity than quality. In the presence of Captain Dan he appeared a trifle ill at ease, a fact which the captain attributed to circumstances attending their first meeting. Serena seemed somewhat surprised at the call. She regarded her daughter and Mr. Holway with an odd expression, and, so it seemed to her husband, was apparently dissatisfied or disturbed. At all events she said little and, when addressed, answered absent-mindedly.
Mr. Hungerford was the most surprised of all. He had been out, and when, returning, he found his friend in the drawing-room, his greeting was not too cordial. Mr. Holway also seemed embarrassed, and a bit on his guard.
“Hello, Tacks!” he said, rising and extending his hand.
Cousin Percy did not see the hand, or, if he saw it, did not offer his own.
“Hello,” he said, gruffly. Then, after a quick glance at the quartette in the drawing-room, he pulled forward a chair and, without waiting for an invitation, seated himself.
“How goes it?” inquired Monty.
“All right enough. Oh—er—Gertrude, I've found out about that recital affair. It is next Wednesday afternoon. I have arranged for us to go. Rather difficult business to manage, at such a late date, but I managed to pull it off.”
Gertrude smilingly declared that she was much obliged. “I don't know, of course,” she added, “what Mother's plans for that day may be, but if she is not busy I'm sure we shall be pleased to go. Thank you for thinking of us.”
Mr. Hungerford hesitated. “Well,” he said, “to tell you the truth, I had supposed that Mrs. Dott might be rather busy. It is your committee meeting afternoon, isn't it, Mrs. Dott? and so I arranged for only two. Awfully stupid of me, I know.”
“Oh, that will be all right. You and Mother can go, then. I don't mind at all. Really, I don't. And Mother is so fond of music. It is all right, Mother,” turning to Serena, who had been about to speak, “you can go just as well as not. You must. Never mind the committee meeting; I'll act as your substitute there.”
Cousin Percy was not overcome with joy; at least, he managed to restrain his ecstasy. Mr. Holway volunteered a word.
“Is it the Wainwright Recital you are talking about?” he inquired, eagerly. “That's all right. I can get cards for that. It's a cinch. I'll see that you go, Miss Dott. By George! I'll—I'll go myself. Yes, I will, really. We'll all go.”
This prompt suggestion should have cleared the air. Somehow it did not. Mr. Hungerford merely grunted. Gertrude shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I think, perhaps, I had better not go, after all. But it is ever so nice of you to offer, Mr. Holway. You and Cousin Percy can take Father and Mother. That will be splendid.”
“Don't bother about me,” put in Daniel, hastily. Recitals were almost as distasteful as Chapter meetings or “At Homes” to his mind.
“It won't be any bother, I'm sure,” declared Gertrude. “Will it, Cousin Percy? Will it, Mr. Holway?”
Both the young gentlemen murmured their pleasure at the prospect of acting as escorts to the elder members of the Dott family. Serena said she would “see about it,” she couldn't say for certain whether or not she would be able to attend the recital. Captain Dan said nothing.
The conversation dragged somewhat after this. “Monty” and Mr. Hungerford addressed the greater portion of their remarks to Gertrude, only occasionally favoring Serena and Daniel with a word or question. To each other they were very uncommunicative. At last, however, after Mr. Holway had given a very full account of a “dinner dance” which he had recently attended, “a very exclusive affair, only the best people, you know,” Percy, who had been listening impatiently, turned toward him and drawled:
“I remember that dance. Beastly tiresome, I judged it would be, so I sent regrets. I heard you enjoyed yourself, old chap. Said I imagined so, considering your company. By the way, that must be getting quite serious, that affair of yours. When may we expect the announcement?”
Holway colored. His usual facility of speech seemed to have deserted him.
“Announcement!” he stammered. “Announcement! What—what—”
His friend laughed.
“Oh, it's all right, old man,” he observed. “Don't get excited. She's a charming girl. No one blames you.”
“Monty” continued to sputter. Gertrude was all excitement.
“Oh, how interesting!” she said. “Do tell us about her, Mr. Holway. Do I know her?”
“Know her!” Mr. Holway's indignation was intense. “I—I don't know her myself. He's just guying, Miss Dott. He—he thinks because he—he is so confoundedly fascinating, and has so many—so many—
“Oh, that reminds me, Tacks,” turning upon the smiling Hungerford, “I saw a friend of yours yesterday. She looked quite desolate, quite broken-hearted, my word she did. You were a little cruel there, weren't you, my boy? Just a bit cruel. Everyone expected—”
He did not finish the sentence, but his expression indicated that much was expected. It was Cousin Percy's turn to color.
“Don't be an idiot, Monty,” he snapped. “That is, more of an idiot than you can help. Don't mind him, Gertrude; he has an amazing idea of repartee, that's all.”
Serena volunteered a remark concerning the weather just then. She observed that it might be raining, it had looked that way before dinner. Mr. Holway possibly considered that a hint was involved; at any rate, he rose and announced that he must be going. Gertrude begged him not to hurry, they had all enjoyed his call so much, she said. Cousin Percy suddenly declared that he would accompany his friend on his way, a walk would do him good. Monty expressed no enthusiasm at the prospect of company, but the pair left the house together.
After they had gone, Daniel turned to his wife.
“Humph!” he observed, “what sort of talk do you call that? I thought those two were chums; and yet I didn't know but they was goin' to fight one spell. It's a good thing you hove in that about the rain when you did, Serena.”
Serena was grave. “Gertie,” she inquired, “did you ask that young man to call here?”
Gertrude was the picture of surprised innocence.
“Ask him to call?” she repeated. “Mr. Holway, do you mean? I don't know. I think not. Why?”
“WHY?” Captain Dan almost shouted it. His wife motioned him to be quiet.
“Hush, Daniel,” she said. “You know why, Gertie, as well as I do. You are engaged to be married.”
Gertrude smiled. “Of course I am,” she answered. “What of it?”
“What OF IT?”
“Hush, Daniel, hush! Engaged girls, Gertie, are not supposed to have young men calling upon them.”
“Oh,” with a shrug. “I don't know that he was calling on me. He did not ask for me when he came. And you and Daddy were here all the time. Besides, merely because I am engaged isn't any reason why I should retire from the world altogether, is it? Mrs. Lake says—”
Daniel struck the table with his fist.
“Mrs. Lake!” he shouted. “Mrs. Lake don't live with her husband. She's a grass widow, that's what she is.”
“She is one of Mother's dearest friends, and any friend of Mother's should be good enough for me.”
The captain choked. “You—you talk to her, Serena,” he stammered; “I can't.”
Serena looked more troubled than ever.
“Gertie,” she faltered, “if Mrs. Lake has been advising you—to—to—”
“She hasn't advised me at all. Now, Mother, what IS the use of all this? If I have learned anything from you and your Chapter friends it is to be broad-minded and independent. If Mrs. Lake is not a living example of independence, who is?”
Serena could not seem to find an answer at the moment. Her husband tried again.
“Gertie Dott,” he declared, “I—I don't know what to make of you, all at once. And John Doane wouldn't either. If John knew—”
Gertrude interrupted. “That's enough, Daddy,” she said, firmly. “I am quite willing John shall know; when I am ready I shall tell him. He is a dear, good fellow, in his way, but—”
She hesitated. Her parents asked a question in concert.
“But what?” they demanded.
“Why—why, nothing of importance. But I am learning here in Scarford. My opportunity has come, just as yours did, Mother. I am a free woman and I shall not be a slave—a SLAVE to any man.”
With which remark, a quotation from a paper read at the most recent Chapter meeting, she walked from the room. Her astonished parents looked at each other. Daniel was the first to speak.
“My soul and body!” he gasped. “What—what—Serena, did you hear what she said? That about John? That he was a good fellow—in his way? In his WAY! My soul and body!”
Serena shook her head.
“I—I don't believe she meant it, Daniel,” she said. “I'm sure she didn't. She's just a little carried away, that's all. All this society—this altered social position of ours—has turned her head the least bit. She didn't mean it. I'll have another talk with her pretty soon.”
“I should say you'd better. Serena, do you know what I've done? Done on my own hook, I mean. I've written—”
He paused. The disclosure which, on the impulse of the moment, he had been about to make was, for him, a serious one. He had written the letter “on his own hook,” without telling his wife of his action. What would she say if he told her now, so long afterward?
“You've done? What have you done?” asked Serena sharply.
The captain still hesitated. Before his mind was made up the front door opened and Cousin Percy made his appearance. He entered the hall quickly, and to Mr. Hapgood—who hastened from somewhere or other to take his coat and hat—he said nothing, except to snarl a comment on the butler's slowness. He did not speak to the Dotts either, but tramped savagely up the stairs. His face, as seen by the electric light, was flushed and frowning.
Serena turned to her husband.
“How cross he looked,” she said, wonderingly. “I never saw him so before. What do you suppose has happened?”
Speculation concerning Cousin Percy's evident perturbation caused her to forget the disclosure Captain Dan had been about to make. By the time she remembered to ask about it the captain had decided not to tell. He fabricated some excuse or other, and the excuse was accepted, to his great relief.
None of the Dott household attended the Wainwright recital. Mr. Holway called on Wednesday, just after luncheon, to say that he had obtained the necessary cards, but his kindness went for nought. He stayed, so it seemed to Daniel, a good deal longer than was necessary, and Mr. Hungerford, who remained in the room every moment of the time, evidently thought so, too. So did Serena. Gertrude, however, was very cordial, and again begged the visitor not to hurry.
Saturday evening was that of the Chapter meeting, the meeting at which Gertrude was to be made a member. That forenoon Azuba electrified her mistress by expressing an ardent desire to become a member also. Her wish was not received with enthusiasm.
“Why, what do you want to do that for, Azuba?” asked Serena in amazement.
“Why shouldn't I want to? You're a member, ain't you? Gertie's goin' to be a member to-night, ain't she?”
“Yes. But—but—”
“Well, but what?”
“I didn't know you were interested in such things. You never were when we lived in Trumet.”
Azuba dismissed the past with a scornful sniff and a wave of the hand.
“Trumet!” she repeated. “Trumet ain't nothin'. Nobody's anything in Trumet. We're in Scarford now, and Scarford's a progressive, up-to-date place. We've all changed since we've been here, and I'm changin' much as anybody. I've been hearin' your papers, when you read 'em to Gertie and the cap'n, and I've been readin' 'The Voice,' too. Yes ma'am, I've read it and I've found out what a back number I've been. But, I ain't goin' to be so no more. I'm goin' to be as up-to-date as the next one, even if I do have to wash dishes for a livin'. Serena—Mrs. Dott, I mean—I'd like first rate to join that Chapter of yours. You put my name in to-night and maybe it can be voted on next meetin'.”
“But—but, Azuba, are you sure you know what it means? Do you think your husband would want you to—”
“My husband! What's he got to do with it? If we free women have got to be slaves to our husbands it's a pretty state of things, I must say. You don't ask your husband every time you go to meetin' whether he likes it or not. No, ma'am, you don't! You're above that, I cal'late. And I shan't ask Labe neither—even if he was where I could ask him, which he ain't. Husbands! Don't talk to me about husbands! THEY don't count.”
Serena said that she would see what could be done and hurried away to discuss the new development with the family.
“Of course she can't join,” she declared. “It is ridiculous. The idea! I supposed she had more sense.”
Daniel chuckled. “So did I,” he observed, “until she got shoutin' independence to me the other day. But it looked then as if she'd got it bad. All right, Serena, if Zuba Jane Ginn is goin' to make speeches at your Chapter meetin's, I'll go any time. You won't have to ask me but once.”
He laughed aloud. His wife was vexed.
“Of course you think it's a great joke,” she said. “Anything that makes trouble for me is a joke to you. She can't join. What do you suppose Annette and Mrs. Lake and the rest would say if I proposed my servant girl as a member? Do stop being silly, if you can. What are you grinning at now?”
Captain Dan, repressing his grin with difficulty, explained that he was thinking of what they would say. Serena, giving him up in disgust, turned to her daughter.
“Gertie,” she begged, “why don't you say something? Azuba can't join that Chapter and you know it.”
Gertrude shook her head.
“I suppose, she can't,” she replied. “And yet, I'm afraid, Mother, that you will find that fact rather hard to explain to her. Azuba doesn't consider herself a servant, in the ordinary sense, at all. She feels, I think, that she is a friend of the family. And she has a right, of course, to improve and advance in every way. I am very much pleased to know she is so ambitious.”
“Ambitious! Azuba Ginn! What does she know about progress or advancement? Who put such ridiculous ideas in her head?”
“Perhaps I did. She and I have had some long talks on the subject. She asked questions and it was duty—and my privilege—to answer them. I am very hopeful of Azuba. She is my first convert. I shall help her all I can.”
“Help her! Help her to what? To be too high and mighty for her place? Help her to be dissatisfied with her station in life?”
“Yes; why not? None of us should be satisfied, short of the very highest. Why, Mother, if you had been satisfied we might all be stagnating in Trumet.”
Serena abandoned the argument. She refused to mention Azuba's desire for advancement again. Several times during the day Captain Dan saw her regarding her daughter with the same odd, doubtful look that she had worn when Mr. Holway made his first call.
After dinner that evening Gertrude and Serena hastened upstairs to dress for the Chapter meeting. Mr. Hungerford, after expressing his regret that the gathering was not to be an “open” one and he, therefore, would not be permitted to see Miss Dott become one of the elect, went out. When he first became a member of the household it was his custom, on occasions of this kind, to remain in the library as “company” for Captain Dan. Now, however, he seldom did this. The captain did not mind; he preferred his own society to that of Cousin Percy.
Just as the ladies descended the stairs the doorbell rang. Hapgood answered the ring, and the voice which replied to his polite query concerning the caller's name was a familiar one.
“Why!” exclaimed Serena, “it is—isn't that—”
“It's John!” cried Gertrude. “Why, JOHN!”
Mr. Doane pushed past the butler and entered the hall. His glance took in the group at the foot of the stairs, but it lingered upon only one member of it.
“Gertie!” he said, and stepped forward. Captain and Mrs. Dott looked the other way; Hapgood gave his attention to the closing of the door.
A moment later the young man was ready to shake hands with the less important inhabitants of the mansion. He did so heartily.
“My!” he exclaimed, “but I'm glad to see you all. It seems a hundred years since I did see you. How are you?”
Serena answered. Captain Dan, his first surprise over, seemed nervous.
“We're real well,” declared Serena. “And it seems awfully good to have you here. Gertrude and I—”
Gertrude interrupted.
“But, John,” she said, “how did you happen to come so unexpectedly? I didn't know—you didn't write me a word about it.”
“I didn't know it, myself. That is, I wasn't sure of it. You know our junior partner, Mr. Griffin, has been very ill—I wrote you that. He is very ill even yet, but he is a little better, and so I grabbed the opportunity. I should have come before, just as soon as—”
He paused. Daniel, in the background, was grimacing and shaking his head.
“As soon as what, John?” asked Gertrude.
“As soon as—as soon as I could. You're glad I came, aren't you; even if it was rather sudden?”
“Of course I am. You know it.”
Her tone was hearty enough, and yet Mr. Doane seemed to find something lacking in it. Serena, too, looked quickly at her daughter.
“Of course she's glad,” she declared. “So are we all. But what are we thinking of? Take off your things. Where's your trunk? Have the man bring it right in.”
“There isn't any trunk. There's a bag outside there, that's all. My visit is likely to be a very short one. If I should have a wire that Mr. Griffin was worse it might be shorter still. I should have to go at once. But we won't worry about that. Dinner? No, thank you, I have dined.”
Captain Dan ushered the newcomer into the drawing-room. John exclaimed at the grandeur of the apartment.
“Whew!” he whistled. “You're fine, aren't you? Gertie wrote me how grand you were and I have been anxious to see the new house. Gertie—why, Gertie! what is it?”
Gertrude was standing in the doorway. She looked perplexed and troubled. John noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing her coat and hat.
“Were you going out?” he asked.
Gertrude hesitated. Serena answered for her.
“Gertie and I were going out,” she said. “It is Chapter night and she was going to be made a member. But you won't go now, of course, Gertie. I'll go—John will excuse me, I know—and you can join at the next meeting. It will be all right, I think. It will have to be, of course.”
But Gertrude still hesitated. Her father was surprised.
“Why, Gertie!” he cried. “What are you standin' there for? 'Tain't likely you'll go to that meetin' now that John's come all the way from Boston to see you. Tell him you ain't goin'.”
The young lady was plainly much disturbed. She looked at Mr. Doane and it was evident that she wanted to say something very much indeed. What she did say, however, was a surprise to everyone.
“I—I ought to go, John,” she faltered. “It is a very important meeting. I can't tell you—now—how important it is.”
John's disappointment showed in his look, but his answer was prompt.
“Then go, by all means,” he said. “I'll go with you, if I won't be in the way.”
But this self-sacrificing proposal was dubiously received by both the ladies. Serena shook her head.
“I'm afraid you couldn't do that, John,” she said.
“It isn't an open meeting, and men are not admitted. But Gertie doesn't need to go.”
“Yes, I do, Mother.”
“No, you don't. I'll explain to Mrs. Lake and the rest. Of course you won't go and leave John here alone.”
“Daddy will be with him and I shall hurry home as soon as I can. I must go, John; I really must. I will explain why later. If I had only known that you were coming! If you had only written me! WHY did you come without writing?”
Captain Dan, fearful of the answer, and indignant at his daughter's conduct, burst into protest.
“You ought to be glad he's come, anyhow,” he declared. “I cal'late he thought—I don't care, Serena, I've said 'cal'late' all my life, and I can't help forgettin' once in a while—I suppose John thought he'd surprise you, Gertie. And now you're goin' to clear out and leave him, just on account of that—that Chapter of yours. You never used to be crazy about Chapters. You used to poke fun at 'em. You did and you know it. But since you've got here to Scarford—I can't help it, Serena; I'm mad clean through. Can't YOU tell that girl to stay to home where she belongs?”
“Gertie,” began Serena, again; but her daughter would not listen.
“Don't, Mother!” she cried, “you are wasting time. We shall be late, as it is. John knows that my going is necessary, or I should not do it. He trusts me to that extent, I hope.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Doane heartily. “Run along and don't say any more about it. Come back as soon as you can, that's all. Shan't I come after you? I can wait outside until the thing is over.”
“No; I don't intend to wait until it is over. Mother and I can take a cab. Come, Mother.”
Serena reluctantly led the way to the hall. Hapgood opened the door.
“One moment, Mother,” said Gertrude. She left Serena on the step and hurried back to the drawing-room. Captain Dan and John were standing there in silence.
“Daddy,” said the young lady, “I think I left my pocketbook upstairs in my room. Will you get it for me?”
The captain ran to the stairs. Gertrude stepped quickly over to her lover.
“John,” she whispered, “you will forgive me, won't you, dear? I MUST go. It will spoil everything if I don't. You see—why, Daddy! you haven't found that pocketbook so soon!”
Daniel had reappeared in the doorway.
“I sent Hapgood for it,” he announced. “It's a good thing to make him work once in a while. What's the use of my runnin' errands when I pay him wages to run 'em for me? He'll be down in a minute.”
Gertrude did not seem pleased. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Well, never mind. Why! here is the pocketbook in my bag, after all. Good-by, John. I will hurry back. You and Daddy will have a lot to talk about, I know. Good-by.”
The door closed behind her. Captain Dan stepped to the foot of the stairs.
“Found it yet?” he shouted.
Hapgood answered from above.
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Then keep on lookin' till you do. It's a good excuse to keep him out of the way,” he explained, turning to Mr. Doane. “He makes me nervous, hangin' around and lookin' at me. I never was brought up to a butler and I can't get used to this one. Come on into the sittin'-room—library, I mean. The furniture ain't so everlastin' straight up and down there and there's somethin' to smoke—or there ought to be, if Cousin Percy ain't smoked it first. Come on, John.”
In the library, with lighted cigars and in comfortable easy chairs, the two men looked at each other.
“Well, John,” began the captain, “you—you come, didn't you?”
“Yes, of course. I should have come as soon as I got your letter, but I couldn't get away. I was going to tell you that.”
“Yes,” drily, “I know you was. If I hadn't cut across your bows, you would. Whew! if you had I guess likely there'd have been somethin' doin'. If Gertie or Serena knew I wrote you that letter I'd stand to lose what hair I've got left. Didn't I write you not to mention that letter to a livin' soul?”
“You did. But I couldn't understand why. What is all this secrecy, anyhow? And what is troubling you about Gertie?”
“Well, now, I don't know as there's anything.”
“Humph! I judged there was a little of everything. What is the matter? Out with it.
“Well—we-ell—you see—you see—”
“I don't see anything, Captain Dott.”
“You saw how she was set on goin' to that Chapter meetin', didn't you? You saw that?”
“Yes, but what of it?”
“What of it? What OF it? Did she ever use to want to go to such things? Down in Trumet did she ever want to go? I bet she didn't! But now she does. And she's goin' to join the thing—join it, herself! As if one loon—I mean as if one Chapter member in the family wasn't enough. I thought when Gertie come home she'd probably keep her ma from goin' off the course altogether. I thought, with her level head, she'd swing us back into the channel again. But she didn't—she didn't. John, Gertie's got the Chapter disease worse than her ma ever had it, I do believe. You've got to talk to her, John, that's what you've got to do—talk to her.”
John laughed. He did not take the situation very seriously. If Gertrude wished to become interested in the Chapter, he was willing she should. She probably had a good reason for it. Her insisting upon attending a meeting on the very evening of his arrival was odd—it did not seem like her—but she doubtless had a good reason for that, too.
“Why don't you talk to her yourself, Captain?” he asked.
“Me! Me talk to her! I have, and what good has it done? She won't listen to me any more. I don't mean she ain't kind to me and lovin' and all that—she wouldn't be Gertie if she wasn't that—but when it comes to Chapter business she's all on her ma's side.”
“Why not talk to her mother, then?”
Daniel straightened in his chair. “To Serena!” he repeated. “Talk against Chapter to Serena! John, you don't know what you're sayin'. One time—just one—I did talk that way. I biled over and I damned that Chapter and the gang in it, cussed 'em in good plain United States. But I'll never do it again. Once was enough.”
He was so very serious that his companion fore-bore to laugh.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why! John, you ain't married or you wouldn't ask that. I'm a peaceable body and I like peace in the house. More'n that, I hate to go 'round feelin' like a sneak thief. That one damn made me miserable for two days. I never swore to Serena afore and I never will again. She was all cut up over it and in a way she was right. No, swearin' aboard ship is one thing—I've had mates that couldn't navigate without it—but ashore in your own house, to the women folks you care for, it don't go. I can't talk to Serena about that Chapter—not even if I'm left alone ALL the time, same as I'm left to-night.”
John nodded. He thought that, at last, he had reached the milk in the cocoanut. Captain Dan, with his love for home and his hatred of lodges and societies, had refused to be interested in his wife's pet hobby, and felt himself neglected and forsaken. He had brooded upon it, and this outburst and the letter he had written were the consequences.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I shouldn't worry. The Chapter here is a large one and Mrs. Dott is interested in it. The interest will wear off when it gets to be an old story.”
“Wear off! With Gertie goin' it harder than her mother ever thought of?”
“Oh, Gertie doesn't mean it.”
“She DON'T! She don't! Perhaps you don't think she means it when she goes to every 'tea' and 'recital' and 'at home' and crazy dido from here to Beersheba and back. Is THAT goin' to wear off? Chasin' around with Cousin Percy and that Holway and land knows who?”
“What? Captain Dott, you're making mountains out of mole hills. Gertie isn't that kind.”
“That's what I said. That's what I used to think. It's this Scarford that's doin' it. It's this Scarford and the society crowd we've got in with. Annette Black—Barney Phelps's wife—is in society, and so's the Lake woman and that Canby piano pounder and that Dusante—my Godfreys! you ought to have seen her, John! She was the brazen thing. Dancin' around! And all hands sittin' lookin' at her as if she was a Sunday School. Everybody! Serena and Gertie and that Holway man and all. And Gertie up and says she might like to dance that way. She! And Cousin Percy laughin' because she said it.”
“Hold on! Wait a minute, Captain. I never saw you so excited. What about this Cousin Percy of yours? He's living here with you, I know that; but what sort of a chap is he? And Holway—who is Holway?”
Daniel went on to explain who Holway was. Also he spoke of Mr. Hungerford and his ways and his intimacy with the family, particularly Gertrude. For weeks the captain had been wanting to talk to someone about these things and, now that he had that opportunity, he made the most of it. He spoke of his own loneliness, and of Serena's infatuation for society, of Gertrude's coming and the great change in her, of the gay life in Scarford, and of his daughter's apparent love for it. He gave his opinion of Hungerford and of Holway, the latter's friend. When John asked questions which implied a belief that the situation was not really as bad as the narrator thought it, Captain Dan, growing warmer and more anxious to justify himself, proceeded to make his statements stronger. He quoted instances to prove their truth. Serena was crazy on the subjects of Chapter and Chapter politics and fashion and money and society, and Gertrude was getting to be even worse. It wasn't any use to talk to her. He had tried. He had told her she was engaged and ought to be more careful. He wasn't the only one who thought so. Barney Black had said the same thing. He quoted from Mr. Black's conversation.
John Doane listened, at first with the smile of the disbeliever, then with more and more uneasiness. He trusted Gertrude, he believed in her, she was not a flirt, but if these stories were true—if they were true—he could not understand. He asked more questions and the answers were as non-understandable. Altogether, Captain Dan, with the best intentions in the world, and with the happiness of his daughter and John uppermost in his mind, succeeded in laying a mine which might wreck that happiness altogether.
At last something—perhaps the expression on his visitor's face—caused him to feel that he might have said too much. He hastened to rectify the mistake.
“Of course you mustn't think Gertie ain't all right, far's you're concerned, John,” he said. “She is—I—I'm dead sure she is. But, you see—you see—You do see, don't you, John?”
Mr. Doane did not answer. He seemed to be thinking hard.
“You see, John, don't you?” repeated Captain Dan.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“And you know Gertie's all right—at heart, I mean? You mustn't be jealous, nor anything of that kind.”
John laughed. “Don't talk nonsense,” he said curtly.
“No, I won't. But—er—what are you thinkin' about?”
“Nothing. Humph! I can't understand—”
“Neither could I. That's why I wrote you. You see why I wrote you, don't you, John?”
“Yes—yes, I see why you wrote me; but—but I can't see why she didn't. She hasn't written me a word of all this.”
And then the captain, in his anxiety to explain, made another indiscreet remark.
“Well,” he observed, “I suppose likely she was afraid you might think that, now she had money—more money than she ever had before, I mean—and was in a different, a higher-toned crowd than she had ever been, that—that—well, that she was likin' that crowd better than the old one. She might have thought that, you know, mightn't she?”
Mr. Doane did not answer. Daniel had made a pretty thorough mess of it.
“Of course,” went on the captain, “as far as Cousin Percy is concerned—”
John stirred uneasily. “Cousin Percy be hanged!” he snapped. “That's enough of this foolishness. Let's change the subject. How is Nate Bangs getting on with the store at home?”
The Metropolitan Store at Trumet was the one thoroughly satisfactory spot on the checkered map of Daniel Dott's existence at the present time. Nathaniel Bangs was making a success of that store. He reported each week and the reports showed increasing business and a profit, small as yet, but a profit nevertheless.
So the captain was only too glad to speak of the store and did so. John appeared to listen, but his answers and comments were absent-minded. He accepted a fresh cigar, at his host's invitation, but he permitted it to go out.
At half-past ten the doorbell rang. Daniel sprang to his feet.
“Here they are!” he declared. “Gertie come home early, just as she said she would. That's 'cause she wanted to see you, John. Hi!” shouting at Mr. Hapgood, who had long since given up the search for the missing pocketbook and had been dozing upstairs, “Hi! you needn't mind. Go aloft again! Go below! Go somewhere! We don't need you. I'll let 'em in, myself.”
The butler, looking surprised, obeyed orders and went—somewhere. The captain flung open the door.
“Well!” he hailed. “Here you are! And pretty early for Chapter night, too. We're waitin' for you, John and I. Shall I pay the cab man?”
Serena, the first to enter, answered.
“No,” she said, “he is already paid.”
“That so? Did you pay him, Serena? Thought that was my job usually. I—” Then, in a tone go entirely different that John Doane, in the drawing-room, noticed the change, he added, “Oh! oh! I, see.”
“Come in,” went on Serena. “Come right in, Cousin Percy.”
She entered the drawing-room, followed by Gertrude and—Mr. Percy Hungerford. Captain Dan, remaining to close the door, came last.
“John,” said Serena proudly, “we want you to meet our cousin, Mr. Hungerford. Percy, this is John.”
John and Hungerford exchanged looks. The latter gentleman extended a gloved hand. “Charmed,” he observed.
John expressed pleasure at the meeting. The pair shook hands.
“So—so Cousin Percy came home with you, did he?” inquired Daniel. “That was kind of unexpected, wasn't it?”
Mr. Hungerford himself answered.
“Why,” he declared, “not altogether, on my part I hoped for the pleasure. It seemed rather rough for Miss Dott and her mother to come alone, and so I hung about until the affair was over.”
“He had a carriage all ready for us,” declared Serena. “It was so thoughtful of him.”
“Not at all. Great pleasure, really.”
Gertrude made the next remark.
“We did not need a carriage,” she said. “Or, if we did, we could easily have gotten one. Cousin Percy need not have troubled.”
“John offered to come for you,” said Daniel. “So did I. We'd have both come, but you wouldn't have us. Wouldn't accept our invitation, would they, John? Gave us to understand they didn't like our company.”
“Cousin Percy did not wait for an invitation,” explained Serena. “He just came. He is so thoughtful.”
Gertrude looked annoyed. She had been regarding Mr. Doane.
“Mother,” she said sharply, “don't be silly. We did not ask for an escort and we didn't need one. The whole thing was quite unnecessary and unexpected. Come, Mother, do take off your things. Oh, I'm so glad to get home.”
The ladies retired to remove their wraps. John made a move to go to their assistance, but Mr. Hungerford, attentive as usual, got ahead of him.
“Well, Daddy dear,” said Gertrude, as they re-entered, “what have you and John been doing while we were away? I suppose you've had a long talk?”
Daniel colored. He looked at Mr. Doane, who, in spite of himself, colored also, and was tremendously annoyed because he did so.
“Yes,” said the captain hastily. “Yes, we talked. We talked, didn't we, John?”
“We did,” affirmed John.
“I'm sure you did. And what about?”
“Oh—oh, about everything. How did the Chapter doin's go off? You're a member now, I suppose, Gertie?”
“Yes,” was the brief reply, “I am a member.”
“Um-hm! Well, I hope you're satisfied—I mean I hope you'll like it. Didn't make a speech, did you? Ha! ha!”
Gertrude did not answer. Serena, to her husband's surprise, appeared vexed.
“But she did though, by Jove!” exclaimed Cousin Percy. “She did, and I'm told it created a great sensation. Miss Canby told me about it as I was waiting for you to come out, Gertrude. She said you gave them a brand-new idea. Congratulations, Gertrude. Wish I might have heard it. Something about the privileges of the Chapter being extended to the hoi polloi, wasn't it?”
The new member of Scarford Chapter looked more annoyed than ever.
“I spoke of the Chapter's advantages being extended,” she said, “that's all.”
“And enough, too,” cried her mother, impatiently. “Quite enough, I should think. If I had known you were going to do that, I should have stayed at home. It was that foolish Azuba who put the notion in your head. You'll be proposing her name next, I suppose. The idea!”
Daniel burst into a roar of laughter.
“What do you think of that, John?” he cried. “Zuby Jane makin' speeches! There's advancement for you, ain't it?”
John smiled, but rather faintly. He had scarcely taken his eyes from Cousin Percy's aristocratic presence. The latter gentleman turned to him.
“Well—er—Mr.—Mr. Doane,” he observed carelessly, “how do you like Scarford, as far as you've seen it?”
John replied that he had seen very little of it.
“You will find it a bit different from—er—what is it? Oh, yes, Trumet. You'll find it a bit different from Trumet, I imagine.”
“No doubt. I can see that already.”
“But John doesn't come from Trumet,” explained Serena; “that is, not now. He is in business in Boston.”
Cousin Percy seemed surprised. He favored the visitor with another look. “Indeed!” he drawled. He did not add “He doesn't look it,” in words, but his manner expressed just that.
Daniel caught his wife's eye. “Well, Serena,” he observed, with a meaning wink, “I guess likely you're tired, ain't you? Time to go aloft and turn in, I should say.”
Serena nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “Gertrude, you and John will excuse us, won't you? John, Captain Dott and I will see you in the morning. Good-night! Good-night, Cousin Percy.”
“Good-night!” said Mr. Hungerford.
“You'll excuse us, John, I'm sure,” went on Serena. “Of course you and Gertie will want to talk, and,” with a slight pause and a glance at Percy, “we will only be in the way. Come, Daniel.”
Captain Dan paused in the doorway. “Ain't you tired, too, Cousin Percy?” he inquired.
It was a fairly broad hint, but Mr. Hungerford did not take it.
“Oh, no,” he replied; “not at all. Good-night, Captain.”
He seated himself on the sofa. Daniel, frowning, followed his wife upstairs.
The conversation which ensued was confined almost altogether to Hungerford and Gertrude. John Doane had little to say, and less opportunity to say it. Each remark made by the young lady was answered by Percy, and that gentleman talked almost incessantly. His remarks also were of a semi-confidential nature, dealing with happenings at various social affairs which Gertrude and he had attended, and hints at previous conversations and understandings between them. John began to feel himself an outsider. After a time he ceased trying to talk and relapsed into silence.
Gertrude noticed the silence and, seizing a moment when her entertaining cousin had paused, perhaps for breath, said, almost sharply:
“John, why don't you say something? You haven't spoken for five minutes.”
John said very little, even in reply to this accusation.
“Haven't I?” he observed. “Well, what shall I say?”
“You might say something, considering that you and I haven't seen each other for so long.”
Mr. Hungerford rose. “I hope I haven't interfered,” he announced. “Didn't mean to intrude, I assure you. Beg pardon—er—Doane.”
John did not answer. Gertrude also rose.
“Good-night, Cousin Percy,” she said, with a gracious smile. “Thank you so much for the carriage and your escort.”
“Quite welcome. Pleasure was mine. Goodnight, Gertrude. Oh, by the way, I believe you and I are to go over that paper of your mother's tomorrow. She asked my advice and said you would assist, I think. I shall look forward to that assistance. Good-night, Doane. Glad to have met you, I'm sure.”
He strolled out. Upon reaching his room he discovered that his cigar case was empty. Hapgood not being on hand and, feeling the need of a bedtime smoke, he tiptoed down the stairs and through the back hall into the library. The room was dark, but sufficient light shone between the closed curtains of the drawing-room to enable him to locate Captain Dan's box. Silently and very slowly he refilled the case.
John Doane and Gertrude, alone at last, looked at each other. The former was very solemn. Gertrude, quite aware of the solemnity, but not aware of its principal cause—her father's impolitic disclosure of his apprehensions concerning herself—was nervous and a bit impatient.
“Well, John,” she asked, after a moment's wait, “aren't you going to say anything to me even now?”
John tried his best to smile. It was a poor attempt.
“Why, yes,” he said slowly, “I came all the way from Boston to see you and talk to you, Gertie. There is no reason why I shouldn't say—whatever there is to say, I suppose.”
Gertrude looked at him. The tone in which this speech was delivered, and the speech itself—the first part of it, especially—amazed and hurt her. Incidentally, her temper having been sorely tried already that evening by Mr. Hungerford, it made her angry.
“All the way from Boston,” she repeated. “Well, I never knew you to complain in that way before. I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble.”
“It wasn't a trouble, Gertie. You know I would go around the world for you.”
“Then why speak of coming all the way from Boston? Whose fault was it, pray? Did I ask you to come?”
And now, John, who had been fighting his own temper for some time, grew angry.
“You did not,” he declared. “But I judge it was time I did.”
“Indeed! Indeed! Why?”
“Well—well, for various reasons. Of course, had I known my coming would interfere with your—your precious Chapter affairs and—”
“John, I had to go to that meeting. If you had written you were coming I shouldn't have gone. I should have made other arrangements. But you didn't write.”
“I wrote every day.”
“Yes, but you did not write you were coming here.”
“I didn't think it was necessary. You wrote every day, too, but you didn't write—you didn't write—”
“What?”
“A good many things that—that I have learned since I came here.”
“Indeed! What things? How did you learn them?”
“I—” John hesitated. To bring Captain Dan's name into the conversation would be, he felt, disloyal. And it would surely mean trouble for the captain. “I—I learned them with my own eyes,” he declared. “I could see. Gertie, I can't understand you.”
“And I don't understand you. I told you, at the only moment we have had together, I told you then that I would explain about the Chapter. I said that I must go or everything would be spoiled. You very nearly spoiled it by coming as you did.”
Mr. Doane's expression changed. It had softened when she reminded him of the whispered word in the drawing-room. The last sentence, however, brought his frown back again.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Well—humph! that's easily remedied. I came in a hurry and I can go the same way.”
“John! John, what do you mean? How can you speak so to me! Would you go away now that—that—”
“You wouldn't miss me so much, I should imagine. Cousin Percy will be here, and you and he seem to be very confidential and friendly, to say the least.”
Gertrude gasped. She was beginning to understand, or imagined that she was. She laughed merrily.
“John! Why, John!” she cried. “You're not jealous! YOU!”
John looked rather foolish. “No-o,” he admitted doubtfully, “I'm not jealous. Of course I'm not, but—”
“But what? Don't you trust me, John? Don't you?”
“Of course I do. You know I do, but—See here, Gertie, you said you were going to explain—to explain something or other. Do it, then. I think I am entitled to an explanation.”
But Gertrude's merriment had vanished. Her eyes flashed.
“I shall not explain,” she said. “You don't trust me. I can see you don't.”
“I do. I do, Gertie, really; but—but—”
“But you don't. You think—you think—oh, I don't know WHAT you think! No, I shall not explain, not now, at all events. Good-night!”
She hastened from the room. John ran after her.
“Gertie,” he cried, “you're not going? You're not going to leave me in this way, without a word? I do trust you. I only said—”
“It wasn't what you said; it was the way you said it. I am going. I am shocked—yes, and hurt, John. I shall not speak to you again to-night. To-morrow perhaps, if you beg my pardon and I am really sure you do trust me, I may tell you—what I was going to tell. But not now. I—I didn't think you would treat me so.”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried up the stairs. John, standing irresolute on the lower step, hesitated, fighting down his own pride and sense of injury. That moment of hesitation was freighted with consequence. Then:
“Gertie,” he cried, hastening after her, “Gertie, wait! I do beg your pardon. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”
But it was too late. Gertie's chamber door closed. John went slowly up to his own room, the room to which the butler had carried his bag. A few minutes after he had gone the curtains between the library and drawing-room parted and Mr. Hungerford appeared. He was very cautious as he, too, ascended the stairs. But his expression was a pleasant one; there was no doubt that Cousin Percy was pleased about something.
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