“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?”