Cap'n Dan's Daughter Part 62

"DADDY!" she protested sharply. "Daddy, how can you! Cousin Percy!"

"Well, you know--"

"I hate him. I've told you so. Or I should, if he was worth hating; as it is I despise him thoroughly."

"That's good! That's one load off my mind. But, you see, Gertie--well, when your mother and I first told you we'd made up our minds to come back here, you--you stood up for him, and said he was aristocratic and--and I don't know what all. That's what you said; and 'twas after the Zuba business, too."

Gertrude regarded him wonderingly. "Said!" she repeated. "I said and did all sorts of things. Daddy--Daddy, DEAR, is it possible you don't understand yet that it was all make-believe?"

"All make-believe? What; your likin' Cousin Percy?"

"Yes, that and Mr. Holway and everything else--the whole of it. Haven't you guessed it yet? It was all a sham; don't you see? When I came back from college and found out exactly how things were going, I realized at once that something must be done. You were miserable and neglected, and Mother was under the influence of Mrs. Black and that empty-headed, ridiculous Chapter and would-be society crowd of hers. I tried at first to reason with her, but that was useless. She was too far gone for reason. So I thought and thought until I had a plan. I believed if I could show her, by my own example, how silly and ridiculous the kind of people she a.s.sociated with were, if I pretended to be as bad as the worst of them, she would begin by seeing how ridiculous _I_ was, and be frightened into realizing her own position. At any rate, she would be forced into giving it all up to save me. Of course I didn't expect her to be taken ill. When THAT happened I was SO conscience-stricken. I thought I never should forgive myself. But it has turned out so well, that even that is--"

"Gertie! Gertie Dott! stop where you are. Do you mean to tell me that all your--your advancin' and dancin' and bridgin' and tea-in' and Chapterin' was just--"

"Just make-believe, that's all. I hated it as much as you did; as much as Mother does now."

"My SOUL! but--but it can't be! Cousin Percy--"

"Oh, do forget Cousin Percy! I was sure he was exactly what he was and that he was using you and Mother as conveniences for providing him with a home and luxuries which he was too worthless to work for. I was sure of it, morally sure, but I made up my mind to find out. So I cultivated him, and I cultivated his particular friends, and I did find out. I pretended to like him--"

"Hold on! for mercy sakes, hold on! YOU pretended, but--but HE didn't.

If ever a feller was gone on a young woman he was, towards the last of it. Why, he--"

"Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+ Don't speak of it. It makes me disgusted with myself even to think of him. If he was--was as you say, it is all the better. It serves him right. And I think that it was with my--with your money, Daddy, much more than your daughter, he was infatuated. I had the satisfaction of telling him my opinion of him and his conduct before he left."

"Ho! you did, hey? Humph! I wish I might have heard it. But, Gertie,"

his incredulity not entirely crushed, "it wasn't ALL make-believe; all of it couldn't have been. Even Zuba, she got the advancin' craziness.

She joined a--a 'Band,' or somethin'."

"No, she didn't. She pretended to, but she didn't. There wasn't any such 'Band.' She was helping me to cure Mother, that's all. It was all part of the plan. Her husband understands now, although," with a laugh, "he didn't when he first came."

Daniel drew his hand across his forehead.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "WELL! and I--and I--"

"I treated you dreadfully, didn't I? Scolded you, and told you to go away, and--and everything. I COULDN'T tell you the truth, because you cannot keep a secret, but I was sorry, so sorry for you, even when you were most provoking. You WOULD interfere, you know. Two or three times you almost spoiled it all."

"Did I? I shouldn't wonder. And--and to think I never suspicioned a bit of it!"

"I don't see why you didn't. It was so plain. I'm sure Mother suspects--now."

"Probably she does. If I wasn't what I've called myself so much lately, an old fool, I'd have suspected, too. I AM an old fool."

"No, you're not. You are YOU, and that is why I love you--why, everyone who knows you loves you. I wouldn't have you changed one iota. You are the dearest, best father in the world. And you are going to be happy now, aren't you?"

"I--I don't know. I ought to be, I suppose. I guess I shall be--if I ever get over thinkin' what a foolhead I was. So Zuba was part of it all, hey? And John, too? He was in it, I presume likely."

Gertrude's expression changed; so did her tone.

"We won't talk about John, Daddy," she said. "Please don't."

"Why not? I want to talk about him. In a way--yes, sir! in a way I ain't sure that--that I didn't have a hand in spoilin' that, too. Considerin'

what you've just told me, I wouldn't wonder if I did."

His daughter had risen to go. Now she turned back.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you mean? Spoiling--what?"

"Why--why, you and John, you know. Whatever happened between you and him happened that night when he come to Scarford. And he wouldn't have come--not then--if I hadn't written for him."

Gertrude was speechless. Her father went on.

"Long's we're confessin'," he said, "we might as well make a clean job of it. I wrote him, all on my own hook. You see, Gertie, 'twas on your account mainly. I was gettin' pretty desperate about you. Instead of straightenin' out your ma's course you were followin' in her wake, runnin' ahead of her, if anything. It looked as if you'd have her hull down and out of the race, if you kept on. _I_ couldn't hold you back, and, bein' desperate, as I say, I wrote John to come and see if he could. And I told him to come quick.... Hey? What did you say?"

The young lady had said nothing; she had been listening, however, and now she seemed to have found an answer to a puzzle.

"So that was why he came?" she said, in a low tone, as if thinking aloud. "That was why. But--but without a word to me."

"Oh, I 'specially wrote him not to tell you he was comin'. I didn't want you to know. I wanted to have a talk with him first and tell him just how matters stood. After you'd gone to Chapter meetin' that night--I always thought 'twas queer, your bein' so determined to go, but I see why now; 'twas part of your plan, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Go on."

"Well, I judge John thought 'twas funny, too--but never mind. After you'd gone, he and I had our talk. I told him everything. He was kind of troubled; I could see that; but he stood up for you through thick and thin. He only laughed when I told him--told him some things, those that worried me most."

Gertrude noticed his hesitation.

"What were those things?" she asked.

"Oh, nothin'. They seem so foolish now; but at that time--"

"Daddy, did you tell him of my--my supposed friends.h.i.+p for Mr.

Hungerford?"

Daniel reluctantly nodded. "Yes," he admitted. "I told him some. Maybe I told him more than was absolutely true. Perhaps I exaggerated a little.

But he was so stubborn in not believin', that.... Hey? By G.o.dfreys!" as the thought struck him for the first time, "THAT wasn't what ailed John, was it? He wasn't JEALOUS of that consarned Percy?"

Gertrude did not answer.

"It couldn't be," continued Daniel. "He's got more sense than that.

Besides, you told him, when you and he were alone together, why you was actin' so, didn't you? Or did he know it beforehand? I presume likely he did. Your mother and I seem to have been the only animals left outside the show tent."

Again there was no answer. When the young lady spoke it was to ask another question.

"Daddy," she said, not looking at him, but folding and unfolding a bit of paper on the counter, "are you SURE you mailed that letter I gave you the morning after--after he went away?"

"What? That letter to John that you gave me to mail? I'm sure as I can be of anything. I put it right in amongst the bills and checks I had ready, and when the postman came I gave 'em all to him with my own hands. Yes, it was mailed all right."

"And no letters--letters for me--came afterwards, which I didn't receive? You didn't put one in your pocket and forget it?"