“Virginia, come here!” roared Obadiah on the morning after the trip up the river.
There was a rough commanding note in his voice which made the girl spring to her feet, and, shaken by dread of impending calamity, with throbbing heart and startled eyes, hurry down stairs to where he awaited her in the living room.
He stood before the great mantel. The morning paper was stretched between his hands, his nervous fingers crushing its edges. His face was flushed with passion and his eyes, as they met those of his daughter, were cruel in their anger. “Look here! See what you have done,” he cried, in a voice which shook with the intenseness of his emotion. In his haste he tore a corner from the paper as he thrust it towards the trembling girl.
She accepted the sheet as if she were in a dream. Never had he spoken so to her. Never had she seen him in such a rage. Fear of him–of the primitive masculinity of the man–clutched at her heart. Everything seemed unreal. It was as if she were in the midst of a horrible nightmare from which she might, if she would, release herself. She sank into a chair, the paper across her knees. As her eyes dropped, the print danced queerly for a moment before her vision cleared. There, she read in staring headlines, “The Wreck of the Nancy Jane.”
The comical side of the vicissitudes of the Nancy Jane, with its passenger list of mothers and babies had so impressed the reporter that he had prepared his story in a humorous vein. Unfortunately, he had elected to weave his story about Obadiah Dale, the manufacturer, and his daughter, instead of about Mrs. Henderson or any humble individual. The story was funny. The way the scribbler linked the generosity of Obadiah towards the babies, the navigation of the Lame Moose by the Nancy Jane, and Elgin’s Grove, was a scream to those who knew the selfishness of the mill owner, the shallow depth and harmlessness of the Lame Moose and the lurid history of the grove. The editor-owner of the paper had little use for Obadiah and in running this article–good natured and harmless on its face–he had hit the manufacturer in a vulnerable spot. Obadiah could not stand ridicule.
While Virginia read, the wide toed shoes of her father resounded, as he tramped excitedly up and down the room. She finished the article and looked up at him. Little chills of fright thrilled up and down her spine, and yet she found no reason for it in the column she had been reading. That struck her as rather silly.
As she dropped the paper, Obadiah glowered down at her. “Now,” he yelled, in his high voice, “I hope that you are satisfied. You have made me the laughing stock of this town–made a perfect ass out of me.” He shook a long forefinger at her. “I’ve stood enough of your foolishness and it’s got to stop.” The old man was nearly frantic with anger as he scowled at her, a pale, crushed little thing in the big arm chair. “I’m tired of it,” he raged. “You make me ridiculous by your failure to appreciate that there is such a thing as personal dignity. You’ve mixed me in the most nonsensical affairs. Think of it! Parading down the main street of this town behind a minstrel band with a load of negroes!” He almost gnashed his teeth at the thought. “You got up that fool band concert at the Old Ladies’ Home. It was a farce with the fire department dashing up in the middle of it. Now,” he bellowed, “you had to go and get mixed in this mess on the river.” Obadiah had to pause in the catalogue of his grievances to catch his breath. His temper was choking him. “I’ve always tried to protect my reputation,” he went on. “I’ve minded my business and let other people attend to theirs. But you have to drag me into this. My name is a hiss and a byword in this town today. I’ll never hear the last of it. You are to blame for it all.” Self-pity brought Obadiah to the verge of tears.
But immediately a returning wave of anger engulfed his sorrow. “You are extravagant–wickedly so. You force me to pay out large sums of money. You’ve made me buy ice cream for the old ladies, the veterans, the firemen and all the mothers and babies, too.–Pretty nearly the whole town has been entertained at my expense,” he groaned. “Worst of all,” he continued with renewed temper, “were your fool admissions and asinine agreement which forced me to endow that room at the hospital.
“It’s time to call a halt,” he raved. “I’ll stand it no longer. It must stop.” He paused before the shrinking girl and shook his fist in the air. “Hereafter you will mind your own business and not interfere in the troubles of others. You’ll stay at home where you belong and quit gadding about.”
Stunned by his vehemence and crushed by his words, the forlorn little figure raised pleading eyes to him as he strode out of the room. “Daddy,” she cried after him, but he took no notice of it.