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