The doctor came, stayed for some time and, after administering a sleeping draught and ordering absolute quiet for his patient, departed, saying that he would come again in the morning. He did so and, before leaving, took Captain Dan and Gertrude into his confidence.
“It is a complete collapse,” he said gravely. “Mrs. Dott is worn out, physically and mentally. She must be kept quiet, she must not worry about anything, she must remain in bed, and she must see no one. If she does this, if she rests—really rests—we may fight off nervous prostration. If she does not—anything may happen. With your permission I shall send a nurse.”
The permission was given, of course, and the nurse came. She was a quiet, pleasant, capable person, and Daniel and Gertrude liked her. She took charge of the sick room. Azuba—the common sense, adequate, domestic Azuba of old, not the rampant “free woman” of recent days—was in charge of the kitchen. Her husband remained, at Daniel's earnest request, but he spent his time below stairs.
“Sartin sure I won't be in the way, Cap'n, be you?” he asked earnestly. “I can go somewheres else just as well as not, to some boardin' house or somewheres. Zuby Jane won't mind; we can see each other every day.”
“Not a mite of it, Labe,” replied Daniel earnestly. “There's plenty of room and you can stay here along with your wife just as well as not. I'd like to have you. Maybe—” with a suggestive wink, “maybe you can kind of—well, kind of keep things runnin' smooth—in the galley. You know what I mean.”
Laban grinned. “Cal'late you won't have no more trouble that way, Cap'n,” he observed. “I guess that's over. Zuby and I understand each other better'n we did. I THOUGHT she was mighty—”
“Mighty what?” Mr. Ginn had broken off his sentence in the middle.
“Oh, nothin'. It's all right, Cap'n Dott. Don't you worry about Zuby and me. We'll boss this end of the craft; you 'tend to the rest of it. Say, that Hungerford swab ain't come back, has he?”
“No. No, he hasn't. He's gone for good, it looks like. Sent for his trunk and gone. That's queer, too. No, he hasn't come back.”
Laban seemed disappointed. “Well, all right,” he said. “If he should come, just send for me. I'd just as soon talk to him as not—rather, if anything.”
The captain shook his head in a puzzled way.
“That business of—of him and Zuba was the strangest thing,” he declared. “I can't make head nor tail of it, and Gertie won't talk about it at all. He said 'twas a mistake, and of course it must have been. Either that or he'd gone crazy. No sane man would—”
“What's that?” It was Mr. Ginn's turn to question, and Daniel's to look foolish. “What's that no sane man would do?” demanded Laban sharply.
“Why—why, go away and leave us without sayin' good-by,” explained the captain, with surprising presence of mind. “Er—well, so long, Laban. Make yourself at home. I've got to see how Serena is.”
He hurried up the back stairs. Mr. Ginn, who seemed a trifle suspicious, called after him, but the call was unheeded.
At the door of his wife's room—his room no longer—Captain Dan rapped softly. The nurse opened the door.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“She is asleep now,” whispered the nurse in reply. “You must not come in.”
“I wasn't goin' to. But—but—has she been askin' for me?”
“Yes. I told her you were out. If she wakes and asks for you I will call. You may see her then for a minute or two. She is easier when you are with her—or near by.”
This was true. The one person Serena wished to see most of all was her husband. She asked for Gertrude, of course, but it was Daniel for whom she asked continually. If he were near her she seemed almost happy and contented. It was when he sat beside the bed that she ceased tossing upon the pillow and lay quiet, looking at him.
“You are a good man, Daniel,” she whispered, on one of these occasions. “A dear, good, unselfish man.”
“No, no, I ain't any such thing,” protested the captain hastily.
“But you are. And—and WHAT should I do without you now?”
“Sh-sh! I'm not much help. Land knows I wish I was more.”
“You ARE the help; all the help I have. Gertie—Daniel, you will keep an eye on Gertie, won't you. You won't let her do anything foolish.”
“Who? Gertie? She won't do foolish things. She ain't that kind.”
“I know, but she has changed so. It worries me. Percy—”
“Now don't you worry about Percy. He isn't here now.”
“Not here? Where is he?”
“I don't know. He's gone away—for a spell, anyhow. Maybe that vacation he used to talk about is over. I guess that's it.”
Serena was too weak to ask further questions, even concerning so surprising a matter as Cousin Percy's sudden departure. But she did make one further plea.
“Daniel,” she begged, “if Annette calls about the Chapter you tell her—”
“I've told her. She understands. She says it's all right.”
“Does she? I'm so glad. Oh, Daniel, you'll have to take charge of everything now. I can't, and Gertrude—you must do it, yourself, Daniel. You MUST. Of Azuba and Gertie and everything. I rely on you. You WILL, won't you, Daniel?”
“Sure I will. I'm skipper now, Serena. You ought to see how the hands jump when I give an order.”
It was true, too; the hands did “jump” at the captain's orders. He was skipper, for the time being. His wife's illness, Mr. Hungerford's absence, Gertrude's meekness—she was a silent and conscience-stricken young lady—all combined to strengthen Daniel's resolution, and he was, for the first time in years, the actual head of the household. He took active charge of the bills and financial affairs, he commanded Azuba to do this and that, he saw the callers who came and he sent them to the rightabout in a hurry.
His statement concerning Mrs. Black was not the literal truth. Annette had called, that was true; she had called the very next morning after her chief aide was stricken. But she had not declared that everything was “all right”; far from it.
“But can't I see her, Captain Dott?” she begged. “I MUST see her for just a minute.”
“Sorry, ma'am, but you can't do it. Doctor's orders. She mustn't be disturbed.”
“But I've got to see her. I must talk with her.”
“I know, but I'm afraid you can't. You can talk to me, if that will do any good.”
“It won't. Of course it won't. Where is Gertrude? Let me talk to her.”
Daniel climbed the stairs to his daughter's room. He found her sitting at her desk; she had been writing “regrets” in answer to various invitations. She turned a careworn face in his direction.
“What is it, Daddy?” she asked. “Mother is not worse, is she?”
“No, no; she's better, if anything. But that—er—Annette Black has come and, long as she can't see Serena, she wants to talk to you.”
“About her precious politics, I suppose.”
“Your supposin' is as nigh right as anything mortal can be, Gertie. That's what she wants.”
“I can't see her. I don't want to see her. I don't want to hear the word politics. I—”
“That's enough, that's enough. I'll 'tend to HER. You stay right here.”
He descended to the drawing-room, where Annette was fidgeting on the edge of a chair, and announced calmly that Gertrude was not at home.
The caller's agitation got the better of her temper.
“Nonsense!” she snapped. “I don't believe it. How do you know she isn't?”
“Because she said so. Lovely mornin' for a walk, isn't it?”
Mrs. Black rose and stalked to the threshold. But there she turned once more.
“If your wife knew,” she cried hysterically, “how I, her best friend, was treated in her house, she—she—”
Daniel stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Black,” he said. “Maybe I have been pretty plain spoken. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelin's. But, you see, we're all upset here. I'm upset, and Gertie's as much so as the rest. She can't talk to you, or anybody else, now. I'm willin' to try, but you say my talkin' won't do any good.”
“Of course it won't. Oh, don't you SEE? I'm sorry Serena is not well, but this is IMPORTANT.”
“I know, but so's her health, 'cordin' to my thinkin'.”
“If I might see her just a moment. It is so provoking. Just at this critical time! Doesn't my—her election mean ANYTHING to you? Don't you care about the cause?”
The captain shook his head. “All I'm carin' for is my wife, just now,” he said. “She's all I can think about. If some of us had thought more about her, maybe—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and added: “I know you'll understand and forgive us, when you think it over. I'll tell her you called. Good-mornin'.”
If he supposed this was the end, he was mistaken. Annette was not so easily whipped or discouraged. She called again that afternoon, and again the next day. Each morning for a week she came, and, between times, other adherents of the Black-Dott party called. They all asked concerning the invalid, but their interest plainly centered upon her part in the campaign. Would she be well enough to take part in the election, that was the question. They sent flowers and notes. The flowers reached the lady for whom they were intended; the notes did not. And, after the first week, the calls became fewer. Annette and her followers had, apparently, given up hope of aid and advice from their candidate for vice-president. At any rate they ceased to trouble the captain and his daughter.
“It's all the better, Daddy, dear,” said Gertrude. “Mother will have a chance to rest and improve now.”
And Serena did improve, slowly at first, then with gratifying rapidity. She began to sit up for a portion of each day and to sleep through the greater part of each night. At the end of the tenth day the doctor announced that the nurse's services were no longer necessary.
“She will be all right now,” he said, referring to his patient. “But she must continue to have absolute rest and she must not be worried or permitted to worry. If you and she could go somewhere, Captain Dott, to some quiet place in the country, and stay there for six months, I think it would help her more than anything. Can you do it?”
“I can do it, Doctor,” replied Daniel eagerly. “I'd like to do it. I'll go anywhere, if it will help her.”
“Good! Then I will advise it and you and Miss Dott must back my advice. Will you?”
“I will, and so'll Gertie, I'm sure. You speak to her, Doctor. We'll do the backin' up.”
So the doctor made the suggestion. Serena received it quietly, but, when her husband came to do his share of the “backing up,” she shook her head.
“I'd like to, Daniel,” she said. “I'd like to, but I can't.”
“You can't? Course you can! Now let's think where we'll go. Niagara Falls, hey? You always wanted to go to the Falls.”
“No, Daniel.”
“No? Well, then, how about Washin'ton? We'll see the President, and the monument, and the Smithsonian Museum, and Congress—we'll see ALL the curiosities and relics. We'll go to—”
“Don't, Daniel. It makes me tired out just to hear about them. I couldn't stand all that.”
“Course you couldn't! What a foolhead I am! The doctor said you needed rest and quiet, and Washin'ton is about as quiet as the Ostable Cattle Show. Well, what do you say to the White Mountains?”
“In winter? No, Daniel, if I went anywhere I should like to go to—to—”
“Where, Serena? Just name it and I'll buy the tickets.”
“Daniel, I'd rather go to Trumet than anywhere else.”
Captain Dan could scarcely believe it.
“WHAT!” he cried. “Trumet? You want to go to Trumet, Serena? YOU?”
“Yes. I've been wanting to go for some time. I never told you; I wouldn't even admit it to myself; but I've thought about it a great deal. I was getting so tired, so sick of all the going about and the dressing up and the talking, talking all the time. I longed to be somewhere where there was nothing going on and where you and I could be together as we used to be. And, oh, Daniel—”
“Yes, Serena? Yes?”
“Oh, Daniel, since I've been really sick, since I've been getting better and could think at all, I've been thinking more and more about our old house at Trumet, and how nice and comfortable we were there, and what pleasant evenings you and I used to have together. It was home, Daniel, really and truly home, and this place never has been, has it?”
“You bet it hasn't! It's been—well, never mind, but it wasn't home. Lordy, but I'm glad to hear you talk this way, Serena! I haven't thought anything else since we first landed, but I never imagined you did.”
“I didn't, at first. It has been only lately since I began to feel so tired and my head troubled me so. Daniel, I'm not sure that our coming here wasn't a mistake.”
The captain was perfectly sure. He sprang to his feet.
“That's all right, Serena,” he cried. “If it was a mistake it's one that can be straightened out in two shakes of slack jib sheet. You stay here and rest easy. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“I'm going to make arrangements for our trip to Trumet. 'Twon't take me long.”
“Daniel, stop! Sit down. I didn't say I was going. I said I should like to go.”
“That's the same thing. Now, Serena, I know what's frettin' you. You're thinkin' what'll become of this house and all the fine things in it. They'll be all right. We could rent this house in no time, I know it. I ain't sure but what we could sell it if we wanted to. That real estate fellow, the one Barney—B. Phelps, I mean—introduced me to down street one time, met me t'other day and told me if I ever thought of sellin' this place to let him know. Said he had a customer, or thought he had, that knew the house well and always liked it. He believed that feller would buy, if the price was right. Course I didn't pay much attention then; I judged you wouldn't think of sellin', but—”
“Stop! stop, Daniel! You are so excited it makes me nervous again to hear you. I wasn't thinking of the house at all. The way I feel now I had as soon sell it as not. But that isn't it. I can't leave Scarford. I can't!”
Daniel's enthusiasm faded. There was determination in his wife's tone. He sat down again.
“Oh!” he observed wistfully, “you can't? You're sure you can't, Serena? You know what the doctor said. Why can't you go?”
“Because I can't. It is impossible. I couldn't leave the Chapter. Don't you SEE, Daniel? I am a candidate for vice-president. My friends—the truest, most loyal friends a woman ever had—are depending upon me. I couldn't desert them. I told you that before. Would they desert me?”
“I suppose likely they wouldn't,” reluctantly.
“You know they wouldn't. No personal considerations, no selfish reasons, NOTHING could make them do it. But I've said this all before, Daniel. You must see why I have to stay. I'd like to go, I'd love to, but I can't. Let's talk of something else.”
Captain Dan sighed. “I presume likely you're right, Serena,” he admitted. “It would seem like a mean trick, the way you put it. But after the election? You said, when we was talkin' before, that after you was elected maybe you would go with Gertie and me somewhere. And we'll go to Trumet, that's where we'll go.”
“All right, Daniel, dear, we'll see. And don't worry about me. I am almost well again and I am going to be completely well. Now won't you ask Gertie to come in and talk with me? I am beginning to think about the election. Gertrude must go. We need her vote and her influence. Has she been helping Annette? I hope she has. Send her to me, Daniel, please.”
So the captain, his hopes somewhat dashed, but finding comfort in his wife's new longing to visit the one spot on earth which spelled home to him, left the room to carry Serena's message to their daughter.
He was busy at the desk in the library when, several hours later, Gertrude entered. She was wearing her hat and coat and, coming into the library, stood beside him. He looked up. His expression surprised and alarmed her.
“Why, what's the matter, Daddy?” she asked anxiously. “You look as if something dreadful had happened. What is it?”
Her father put down his pen. A sheet of paper, covered with figures, was on the desk before him; so, also, was the family checkbook which had been, until the illness of Mrs. Dott, in that lady's sole charge.
“Matter?” he repeated. “Matter? Humph! Do I look as if somethin' was the matter? Where have you been?”
“I have been out. Mother was so anxious about the election that I promised her I would see Mrs. Black and some of the others this very day. I have been calling on them.”
“Have, hey? Well, what's the prospect? The cause of right and Black, and justice and Dott is goin' to prevail, I presume likely, isn't it?”
“I don't know. I couldn't find out anything. Mrs. Black was not in, at least that is what the maid said; but I am almost sure she was in. I think I saw her peeping between the curtains as I went down the steps.”
“That so? Perhaps she was dosin' you with the same medicine I handed her when she called that first day after Serena was taken down.”
“I thought of that. But I called on three other leaders of Mother's party—”
“Yours and your mother's, you mean?”
“Yes, of course. I called on three of our leaders. Two of them were in and I talked with them. I could learn nothing from either about the election. They would not discuss it, except to say that everything would be all right. They behaved so oddly and were so embarrassed. It was perfectly obvious that they wanted to get rid of me. I can't understand it.”
“There's lots of things we can't understand in this world. Don't fret your mother about it.”
“I shan't, of course. But what is troubling you, Daddy? Something, I know.”
“Look that way, do I? My looks don't belie me, then. See here, Gertie, I'm stumped. I've been goin' over back bills and the bankbook and the checkbook and—and—well, I'm on my beam ends, that's where I am.”
“Why? Don't the books balance?”
“They balance all right. That's what's kicked me over. If they're true—course they can't be, but IF they are—we've spent close to five thousand dollars since we made this town.”
“Indeed! Well?”
“WELL! Five thousand dollars! I'm sayin' five THOUSAND; do you understand?”
“I understand. I'm not surprised. Living as we do, and moving in the—in the best society as we have, the expense is large, naturally. You must expect that.”
“Expect! Gertie Baker Dott, STOP talkin' that way! Our income, not countin' what the store at Trumet is fetchin' in, ain't over six thousand at the outside. Six thousand a YEAR, that is. And we've got rid of five thousand in a few months! We've got a thousand or so to live the rest of this year on. One thousand—”
“Hush, Daddy! Don't shout and wave your arms. We shall have to use a part of the principal, I presume.”
“Part of the prin—Oh, my soul and body! Use part of it this year, and some more next year, and some more the next, and—and—Do you know where we'll be ten year from now? In the poorhouse, that's where.”
“Oh, I hope not as bad as that. And, besides, think what a beautiful time we shall have during those ten years. Just as beautiful as we have had so far; better, no doubt, for we have really only begun.”
“Ger-tie DOTT!”
“Just think of it, Daddy. We have only begun.”
“I—I won't think of it! I'll stop it, that's what I'll do!”
Gertrude smilingly shook her head.
“Oh, no, you won't, Daddy,” she said. “You never stop anything.”
She turned to go. Captain Dan sat, speechless in his chair, staring at the bills, the figures, the checkbook, and the prospect of the poorhouse. Then he felt her hand upon his shoulder.
“Never mind, Daddy, dear,” she said softly. “I wouldn't worry any more, if I were you. I think—I am beginning to hope that YOUR worries are almost over.”
She kissed him and hurried out before he could collect his senses sufficiently to ask what she meant. He did ask her at their next meeting, but she only smiled and would not tell him.
The next morning Serena's first remark was concerning the election, which was to take place that evening. All that day she spoke of little else, and when the evening came she insisted upon Gertrude's leaving for the hall immediately after dinner. Laban went with her as escort, Mr. Hungerford's former enviable duty, and one which that gentleman had appeared to enjoy more than did its present occupant, who grumbled at missing his “after supper” smoke. Laban returned early. Gertrude did not.
It was after ten when the young lady appeared. She was very grave when her father met her in the hall.
“How is Mother?” she asked. “Asleep, I hope.”
Daniel nodded. “Yes,” he said, “she's asleep, for a wonder. She vowed and declared she was goin' to stay awake until you came, but I read out loud to her and she dropped off while I was doin' it.”
“Then don't wake her, for the world. Tell her I have returned, that I am tired and have gone to bed, and will give her the news in the morning.”
“That won't do. She'll want to know to-night. What is the news? Can't you leave some message? She won't rest if you don't.”
Gertrude pondered. “Tell her,” she began slowly, “tell her Mrs. Black is elected. That is all to-night. Perhaps she will take—other things for granted.”
But when morning, very early morning, came, Captain Dan summoned his daughter from her room.
“She's wide awake, Gertie,” he said, “and she wants to know it all. You'd better come and tell her.”
But Gertrude had been thinking. “I think you had better tell her first, Daddy,” she said. “I think it may be wiser for you to tell her. Things were said and done at that election which she must not know. They were so mean, so contemptible that she ought never to know. If I am not there she cannot ask about them. I will tell you the result and how it came about and you can tell her. Perhaps that will be sufficient. I hope it may be. Listen, Daddy.”
Daniel listened. “My soul and body!” he exclaimed, when the tale was ended. “My Godfreys! and those were the folks she figgered were her friends!”
“Yes.”
“And Annette Black—”
“She was the moving spirit in the whole of it, I'm certain.”
“My Godfreys! And she—and she—well, I guess maybe Serena'll be willin' to go back to Trumet NOW. She wanted to go before; 'twas only loyalty to that gang that kept her from goin'. She's sick of society, and sick of politics, and sick of Scarford. She said she'd give anything to go back to the old house and be comfortable same as we used to be; she said—”
“Daddy!” Gertrude seized his arm. She was strangely excited. “Did she—did Mother really say that?” she demanded eagerly.
“Sure, she said it! Twice she told me so.”
“And she meant it?”
“She acted as if she did. Course we both realized 'twould be hard for you, Gertie, but—”
“Go! Go and tell her about the election. Quick! quick!” She fairly pushed him from her. “Don't wait,” she urged, “go.”
Daniel was on his way when she called him back.
“I almost forgot, Daddy, dear,” she said repentantly. “I was so gl—I mean—well, never mind. What I want to say is that if you think the news will be too great a shock, if you think she is not strong enough to hear it now—”
Her father interrupted. “She's stronger than I've seen her for a fortnight,” he declared. “And one thing's sure, she won't rest till she does hear it. I shall tell her, and get it over.”
“Then be as gentle as you can, won't you?”
“I'll try. But, Gertie, what did you mean by sayin' you was so—so glad? That was what you was goin' to say, wasn't you? I don't see as there's much to be glad about.”
“Don't you? Well, perhaps.... Run along, Daddy, run along.”
She closed the door of her room. Daniel, much perplexed, departed on his unpleasant errand.
His wife was eagerly awaiting him.
“Where's Gertie?” she demanded. “Isn't she coming?”
“She'll come by and by, Serena. She isn't quite dressed yet.”
“What difference does that make? Why doesn't she come, herself? Didn't you tell her I was dying to hear about the election? She must know I am.”
“She does; she knows that, Serena. But she thought—she thought I'd better tell you first, myself.”
Serena leaned forward to look at him. His expression alarmed her.
“Why don't you tell, then?” she asked. “Is it—oh, Daniel, it isn't bad news, is it?”
“It ain't very good, Serena.”
“You don't mean—why, you said that Annette was elected; you said so last night.”
“Yes—yes, she was elected, Serena; but—”
“But—but I wasn't. Is that what you mean, Daniel?”
“Well now, Serena—”
“I wasn't. Yes, it is true, I can see it in your face. I was defeated. Oh—oh, Daniel!”
Captain Dan put his arm about her.
“There! there! Serena,” he said chokingly, “don't cry, don't. Don't feel too bad about it. Politics is politics, inside Chapters and out, I guess. I'm as much disappointed as you are, for your sake, but—but don't care too much, will you? Don't make yourself sick again. Don't cry no more than you can help.”
Serena raised her head from his shoulder.
“I'm not crying,” she said. “Really I'm not, Daniel. It is a relief to me, in a way.”
“A RELIEF?”
“Yes. If it had happened a month ago I should have felt it terribly. I was crazy for office then. But lately I have dreaded it so. If I were vice-president I should have so much care, so much responsibility. Now, I shan't. The honor would have been great, I appreciate that. But, for the rest of it, I don't really care.”
“Don't CARE! My soul and body!”
“No, I don't. And now,” bravely, “tell me all about it. I don't quite see how Annette could win if I did not; but Miss Canby is popular, she has a great many friends. I hope,” wistfully, “I hope I got a good vote. Did I, Daniel?”
Daniel's indignation burst forth.
“You didn't get any votes, Serena,” he cried angrily.
“What? What? No votes? Why—”
“Not a blessed one. They put up a low-down political trick on you, Serena. They left you out to save themselves. They took advantage of your bein' sick to—to—Here, I'll tell you just what they did.”
What they had done was this: Mrs. Lake and Mrs. Black, heads of the opposing factions, each realizing how close the vote was likely to be, had, with their lieutenants—Mrs. Dott excepted—gotten together five days before the election and arranged a compromise, a trade. By this arrangement, Annette was to receive the Lake party's support for president; Miss Canby was to be given the Black support for vice-president; and the united support of both factions was to be behind Mrs. Lake in her struggle for office in the National body. This arrangement was carried through. Serena, not being on hand to protect her own interest, had been sacrificed, her name had not even been brought before the members to be voted upon.
Captain Dan told of this precious scheme, just as it had been told him by his daughter. At first his wife interrupted with exclamations and questions; then she listened in silence.
“That's what they did,” cried the captain angrily. “Chucked you into the scrap heap to save themselves. And you sick abed! This was the gang you worked yourself pretty nigh to death for. These were the FRIENDS you thought you had. And Annette Black was the worst of all. 'Twas her idea in the first place. Why, Serena—”
But Serena could hear no more. She threw her arms about her husband's neck and the tears, which she had so bravely repressed at the tidings of her own disappointment, burst forth.
“Oh—oh, Daniel,” she sobbed, “take me away from here. I hate this place; I hate Scarford and all the dreadful people in it! Take me to Trumet, Daniel. Take me home! Take me home!”
Half an hour later Captain Dan shouted his daughter's name over the balusters.
“Gertie!” he called; “Gertie! come up here, will you?”
Gertrude came. She entered the room hastily. She had feared to find her mother prostrate, suffering from a new attack of “nerves.” She was prepared to obey her father's order to 'phone for the doctor.
But Serena did not, apparently, need a doctor. She was not prostrate, and, although she was nervous, it was rather the nervousness of expectancy, coupled with determination.
“Gertie,” said the captain, “I've got some news for you. Your mother and I have made up our minds to go back to Trumet, and we want you to go along with us.”
The young lady did not answer at once. She looked first at Serena and then at Daniel. The troubled expression left her face and was succeeded by another, an odd one. When she spoke it was in a tone of great surprise.
“To Trumet?” she repeated. “Go back to Trumet? Not to live there?”
Captain Dan hesitated, but his wife did not.
“Yes,” she said decidedly, “to live. For the present, anyhow. At least we shan't live here any longer.”
“Not live here? Not live in Scarford, Mother! Why, what do you mean?”
Her father answered. “She means what she says, I presume likely,” he observed impatiently. “Think she's talkin' for the fun of it? This ain't April Fool Day.”
“But she can't mean it. She can't! Give up the Chapter, and all our friends—”
“Friends! They're a healthy lot of friends, they are!”
“Hush, Daddy; I'm not talking to you. Do you realize what you are saying, Mother? Give up the Chapter, and all your ambitions there? Give up Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake and Miss Canby—”
“And that twist and squirm, antique Greece disgrace of a Dusante woman—don't forget her. Gertie, you stop now. Your ma knows—”
“Daddy, be still. Be still, I say! Mother, are you willing to give them up? And all our society! You say yourself—I've heard you often—that there is no society in Trumet. Give up our bridge lessons, and our dancing, and our teas, and—”
“For the land sakes! What is this; a catalogue you're givin' us? Stop it! Serena, you tell her to stop.”
But Gertrude would not stop. She ignored her father utterly.
“Think what it would mean,” she protested. “Think of your social position, Mother, the position we have worked so hard to attain.”
Serena shook her head. “I don't care,” she said firmly. “Our social position was good enough in Trumet.”
“WHAT! Why, Mother! how often I have heard you say—”
“Never mind what I said. I have said a lot of foolish things, and done a lot, too. But I'm through. I'm sick and disgusted with it all. I'm going to be simple and comfortable and happy—yes, happy. Oh, Gertie, DON'T talk to me about society! There isn't a real, sincere person in it, not in the set we have been in. I hate Scarford and I hate society.”
“Mother! how can you! And opportunity and advancement—”
“I hate them, too.”
Gertrude gasped. “Why, Mother!” she exclaimed. “And it was you who first showed me the way. Who showed me how common and dull and unambitious I had been all my life? Think what leaving here would mean to me. What would Miss Dusante think? I had almost arranged to take dancing lessons of her. Think of Mr. Holway. Is there a young man like him in Trumet? Think of Cousin Percy!”
That was quite enough. Serena rose, her eyes flashing.
“Stop!” she cried. “Stop this minute! Gertrude Dott, your father and I are going back to Trumet and you are going with us.”
“Oh, no, I'm not. Why, Cousin Percy—”
“Don't you dare mention his name to me.”
“Why not? He is very gentlemanly and very aristocratic. You told me that when I first came, Mother. You were always talking about him and praising him then. And I'm sure he moves in the highest circles; he says he does, himself.”
“He is a good-for-nothing loafer. He has sponged upon your father—”
“You have often spoken of him as an honor to the family.”
“A good-for-nothing, dissipated, fast—”
“Oh, a little dissipation is expected in society, isn't it?”
“I should think you would be ashamed!”
“Why? I haven't done a thing that you haven't done, Mother. That is, nothing which your friends don't do every day. They are ever so much more advanced than I am. I have only begun. No, indeed, I am not going back to plain, common, everyday old Trumet. I shall stay here and progress. You and your friends have shown me what is expected of a girl in my position and I shall take advantage of my opportunities. Why, Mrs. Black says that, if I play my cards well, I may catch a millionaire, perhaps a foreign nobleman. How would you like to be mother-in-law to a—well, to a count, for instance?”
Mrs. Dott did not answer this question. Instead she turned to her husband.
“Daniel,” she cried, “are you going to stand this? Are you that girl's father, or aren't you? Are you going to make her mind, or not?”
Daniel would have spoken, but his daughter got ahead of him.
“Oh, Father doesn't count,” she observed lightly. “No one minds what he says. He didn't want to move to Scarford at all. No one minds him.”
Serena stamped her foot. “Daniel Dott,” she cried, “do you hear that? I call upon you, as the head of this family, to tell that girl what she's got to do, and make her do it.”
Captain Dan stepped forward. Gertrude merely laughed. That laugh settled the question.
“Gertie,” ordered the captain, his voice, the old quarter-deck voice which had been law aboard the Bluebird, “you march your boots to your room and pack up. We're goin' to Trumet and you're goin' along with us. March! or, by the everlastin', I'll carry you there and lock you in! You speak another word and I'll do it, anyway. Serena, I'll 'tend to her. You're tired out; lie down and rest.”
“But, Daniel—”
“Lie down and rest. I'm runnin' this craft. Well,” wheeling upon his daughter, “are you goin'? Or shall I carry you?”
Gertrude looked at him and then at her mother. Her lips twitched.
“I'll go, Daddy,” she said meekly, and went.
When Captain Dan descended to the lower floor he found Mr. Ginn in the library.
“Hello!” hailed the latter, “you look kind of set-up and sassy, seems to me. YOU ain't had nothin' to drink, have you?”
“Drink? What do you mean by that? Has anybody around here had anything to drink?”
“I don't know. Some of 'em act as if they had. When I came into the kitchen a spell ago I found my wife and Gertie dancin' like a couple of loons.”
“Dancin'?”
“Yes, sir, holdin' hands and hoppin' around like sand fleas in a clam bake. I asked 'em what set 'em goin' and they wouldn't tell me. I couldn't think of anything but liquor that would start Zuby Jane dancin'. I don't know's that would—I never tried it on her—but 'twas the only likely guess I could make.”
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