would have put his arms about her but she pushed them away.
"And swearing at me," she sobbed. "And using language that--"
"I didn't mean to swear, Serena. I never swore at you before in my life. I didn't mean to this time. It just seemed to come out all of itself. Please forgive me, won't you? Please?"
But Serena was not ready to forgive. The sleepless nights and days of wild excitement had thrown her nerves into a state where it needed but the slightest jar to break them completely. She sobbed, and choked, and gasped, her fingers clutching at her hair. Daniel, hanging over her, tried in vain to put in a word.
"Please, Serena," he kept saying. "Please."
Suddenly the sobs ceased. Serena's hands struck the desk and she rose so abruptly that her husband had scarce time to get out of her way.
"Serena," he cried.
But Serena cut him short. "Go away," she commanded. "Go away and leave me. I don't want to speak to you again."
"But, Serena--"
"Go away. Don't come near me again to-night. Go, go, GO!"
And Daniel went, slowly, reluctantly. He was scarcely past the sill, his hands still upon the knob of the door, when that door was closed from within with a slam. He made one more effort to speak, but he heard the key turn and his wife's voice commanding him to go away. He descended the stairs to the library and threw himself into a chair. Mr. Hungerford, smoking one of his host's cigars and reading the evening paper, looked at him curiously and asked what was the matter.
Daniel turned on him. "Nothin'," he roared. "Nothin', do you hear?" Then he rushed from the library to the hall, seized his hat and coat from the rack and hurried out of the house. He walked and walked, but if, upon his return, anyone had asked him where he had walked he could not have told them. This was the first serious quarrel that he and his wife had had during their married life.
It was half-past seven when he returned and found Azuba fidgeting in the dining-room. It was Mr. Hapgood's free evening and he had left early.
"For mercy sakes!" Azuba demanded. "Where have you been?"
"Out!" was the gloomy rejoinder. "Where's the rest of the folks?"
"Gone to Chapter meetin'."
"Both of 'em?"
"Yes. It was an open meeting and Mr. Hungerford went along, too. Where are you goin' now? Don't you want anything to eat? It's been waitin' for you for an hour."
"Let it wait; I don't want it."
He walked from the room. Azuba gazed after him open-mouthed.
"Well!" she soliloquized in a voice loud enough for the captain to hear. "Well, if anybody'll tell me what's the use of gettin' all het up cookin' vittles in this house, then I'd like to have 'em do it. Here I've worked and worked and fussed and fussed to get dinner and nobody's ate a mouthful but one, and he's the one that gets it for nothin'. I never saw such doin's. Don't talk to ME!"
Captain Dan didn't talk to anybody. He sat alone in the library, miserable and downhearted. After a while Azuba came and announced that she guessed she'd get a mouthful of fresh air, if she wasn't needed. Receiving no answer, she apparently considered the request granted and the captain heard the back door shut. Still the captain sat in the library, a huddled, pathetic heap in the armchair, gazing at vacancy. Occasionally he sighed.
The doorbell rang. Aroused from his doleful reverie by the sound, Daniel jumped from his chair and, going to the hall, shouted for Azuba. Then he remembered that Azuba was not on the premises and answered the ring himself. He had forgotten to push the button of the porch light and, peering out into the dark, he could see only that the person standing upon the top step was a woman. A carriage had drawn up at the curb and the driver was unloading a trunk from the rack.
"Good evenin'!" said Daniel.
The answer was a surprise. There was a laugh, and then a pair of arms were thrown about Captain Dan's neck and a girlish voice said: "Good evening! Is THAT all you've got to say to me? Why, Daddy, you dear old goose, don't you know me?"
Daniel's answer was a shout that might have been heard at the next corner.
"What!" he roared. "GERTIE! Good land of love! Where'd you come from?"
CHAPTER VIII
"But aren't you glad to see me, Daddy?" asked Gertrude. They were in the library. The trunk had been carried upstairs and the young lady had assured her father over and over again that she really didn't want any dinner, as she had eaten on the dining car during the journey from Boston.
The captain, who had scarcely taken his eyes off her since her arrival at the house, drew a long breath.
"Glad to see you!" he repeated. "I never was more glad to see anybody in MY life. How'd you happen to come so soon? We weren't expectin' you for a week."
"I hadn't expected to come, but I changed my mind. Now tell me all about yourself. How are you, and how's Mother? And how are you getting on? Mother has gone to the Chapter meeting, you say. Did she go alone?"
"No, she didn't go alone. That--Cousin Percy went with her."
"Cousin Percy? Oh, you mean Mr. Hungerford. Do you call him Cousin Percy? How funny!"
She seemed much amused. Her father smiled, but it was a rather sheepish smile.
"'Tis kind of funny, I suppose," he admitted. "I don't know as he really is a cousin. Fact is, I guess he ain't any real relation."
"Of course he isn't. He was Aunt Lavinia's second cousin, or something like that, but she was only your aunt by marriage. I don't see why you should speak of him as 'Cousin Percy.' Did he ask you to?"
"No-o; I don't know as he did. But, you see, he always calls your mother Cousin Serena and me Cousin Daniel, and--and--well, I guess we've kind of got into the habit. Your mother began it and, now that he's been here so long, I've caught the disease, I shouldn't wonder."
"Long! Why, he hasn't been here more than a month, has he?"
"Hey? No; no; now that you mention it I don't suppose he has. But it seems a lot longer than that to me."
He sighed. Gertrude regarded him keenly. Unconscious of the regard he sat there, lost in thought, apparently forgetful of her presence. She reminded him by saying:
"Why does it seem longer?"
He started and looked up.
"Hey? Why?" he repeated. "Oh, I don't know. So many things have happened, I guess."
"What kind of things?"
"All kinds. But there--tell me about yourself. How's college? And how's John? Land sakes! I ain't said a word about John, and he's about as important as anything on earth just now, or he ought to be. Guess you think I'm a selfish old pig, not to ask about him before this. How is he?"
"You couldn't be selfish if you tried, Daddy. You never knew how to be. John is well and very busy. He sent his love to you and Mother, and he hopes to run down here before very long and spend a few days with us."
"Does, hey? That's good. I suppose YOU don't hope he'll come. Ha! ha! no, of course not. He's doin' all the hopin'."
"Well, perhaps not all. But there, Daddy, don't waste time talking of John or me. I want to hear about you and about Mother, and how you like living in Scarford."
"Why, I wrote you all about that."
"Yes, I know you did, but I want to hear more, lots more. And I want to see the house. Just think, I haven't seen it at all. Now,