made a real, live business out of a remains that was about ready for the undertaker. I ought to give him the whole craft, but--but I hate to."
"You could. You could sell out to him and still have sufficient income to live upon in comfort here in Trumet. You might sell out, retire, and be a gentleman of leisure, one of the town's rich men. You could do that perfectly well."
Daniel grunted in disgust.
"Don't talk that way," he repeated. "I've had enough gentleman of leisure foolishness to last me through. What do you think I am; a second-hand copy of Cousin Percy, without the gilt edges? _I_ might be kissin' Zuba by mistake if I did that."
The story of that eventful evening and the "mistake" had been told him by his daughter since the return home. Gertrude smiled.
"I guess not," she declared. "You are not in the habit of 'dining out'--in Trumet, at any rate. Have you told Mother?"
"Yes, I told her. I don't think she was much surprised. She'd guessed as much before, so I gathered from what she said."
"No doubt; the explanation was obvious enough. Well, Daddy, I did not expect you would be contented to retire and do nothing. That is not your conception of happiness. But, if you do take Mr. Bangs into partnership, let him manage the entire business. You can be in the store as much as you wish, and be interested in it, so long as you don't interfere. And you and Mother can be together and take little trips together once in a while. You mustn't stay in Trumet ALL the time; if you do you will grow discontented again."
"No, no, I shan't. Serena may, perhaps, but I shan't."
"Yes, you will. You both have seen a little of outside life now, and it isn't all bad, though you may think so just at this time. You mustn't settle down and grow narrow like some of the people here in Trumet--Abigail Mayo, for instance."
"Humph! I'd have to swallow a self-windin' talkin' machine before I could get to be like Abigail Mayo. But you may be right, Gertie; perhaps you are. See here, though, how about you, yourself? You've seen a heap more of what you call outside life than your ma and I have. How are YOU goin' to keep contented here in Trumet?"
"Oh, I shall be contented. Don't worry about me."
"But I do worry, and your mother is beginnin' to worry, too. There's somethin' troublin' you; both of us see that plain enough. See here, Gertie, you ain't--you ain't feelin' bad about--about leavin' that Cousin Percy, are you?"
The young lady's cheeks reddened, but with indignation, not embarrassment.
"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 associated 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--"
"Hush! hush! 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.