My dear Helen[she read]: First let me apologize for flying off the handle the way I did last night. I shouldn't have done it. But, do you know? I believe I'm glad I did—for it's taught me something. Maybe you've discovered it, too. It's this: you and I have been getting oneach other's nerves, lately. We need a rest from each other.Now, don't bristle up and take it wrong, my dear. Just be sensible and think. How many times a day do we snap and snarl at each other? You're tired and half sick with the work and the baby. I'm tired and half sick withmywork, and we're always rubbing each other the wrong way. That's why I think we need a vacation from each other. And dad has made it possible for us to take one. He wants me to go to Alaska with him on a little trip. I want to go, of course. Then, too, I think I ought to go. Dad needs me. Not that he is old, but he is just getting over an illness, and his head bothers him a lot. I can be of real use to him.At his own suggestion he is sending you the enclosed check. He wants you to accept it with his best wishes for a pleasant vacation. He suggests—and I echo him—that it would be a fine idea if you should take the baby and go back to your home town for a visit. I know your father and mother are not living; but there must be some one there whom you would like to visit. Or, better yet, now that you have the means, you would probably prefer a good hotel for headquarters, and then make short visits to all your friends. It would do you worlds of good, and Baby, too.And now—I'm writing this instead of coming to tell it face to face, because I believe it's the best way. I'll be frank. After last night, we might say things when we first met that we'd be sorry for. And I don't want that to happen. So I'm going to stay up here for a day or two.Let me see—to-day is Friday. We are due to leave next Wednesday. I'll be down the first of the week to say good-bye and pick up my traps. Meanwhile, chicken, you'll be all right with Bridget there; and just you putyour wits to work and go to planning out that vacation of yours, and how you're going to spend the money. Then you can be ready to tell me all about it when I come down.
My dear Helen[she read]: First let me apologize for flying off the handle the way I did last night. I shouldn't have done it. But, do you know? I believe I'm glad I did—for it's taught me something. Maybe you've discovered it, too. It's this: you and I have been getting oneach other's nerves, lately. We need a rest from each other.
Now, don't bristle up and take it wrong, my dear. Just be sensible and think. How many times a day do we snap and snarl at each other? You're tired and half sick with the work and the baby. I'm tired and half sick withmywork, and we're always rubbing each other the wrong way. That's why I think we need a vacation from each other. And dad has made it possible for us to take one. He wants me to go to Alaska with him on a little trip. I want to go, of course. Then, too, I think I ought to go. Dad needs me. Not that he is old, but he is just getting over an illness, and his head bothers him a lot. I can be of real use to him.
At his own suggestion he is sending you the enclosed check. He wants you to accept it with his best wishes for a pleasant vacation. He suggests—and I echo him—that it would be a fine idea if you should take the baby and go back to your home town for a visit. I know your father and mother are not living; but there must be some one there whom you would like to visit. Or, better yet, now that you have the means, you would probably prefer a good hotel for headquarters, and then make short visits to all your friends. It would do you worlds of good, and Baby, too.
And now—I'm writing this instead of coming to tell it face to face, because I believe it's the best way. I'll be frank. After last night, we might say things when we first met that we'd be sorry for. And I don't want that to happen. So I'm going to stay up here for a day or two.
Let me see—to-day is Friday. We are due to leave next Wednesday. I'll be down the first of the week to say good-bye and pick up my traps. Meanwhile, chicken, you'll be all right with Bridget there; and just you putyour wits to work and go to planning out that vacation of yours, and how you're going to spend the money. Then you can be ready to tell me all about it when I come down.
Your affectionate husband,Burke.
Helen's first feeling, upon finishing the note, was one of utter stupefaction. With a dazed frown and a low ejaculation she turned the letter over and began to read it again—more slowly. This time she understood. But her thoughts were still in a whirl of surprised disbelief. Then, gradually, came a measure of conviction.
Fresh from her vigils of the night before, with its self-accusations and its heroic resolutions, she was so chastened and softened that there was more of grief than of anger in her first outburst.
She began to cry a little wildly.
Burke was going away. Hewantedto go. He said they—they got on each other's nerves. He said they needed a vacation from each other.Neededone! As if they did! It wasn't that. It was his father's idea.Sheknew. It was all his fault! But he was going—Burke was. He said he was. There would not be any chance now to show him the daintily gowned wife welcoming her husband home to a well-kept house. There would not be any chance to show how she had changed. There would not be—
But there would be—after he came back.
Helen stopped sobbing, and caught her breathwith a new hope in her eyes. Dorothy Elizabeth began to cry, and Helen picked her up and commenced to rock her.
Of course therewouldbe time after he came back. And, after all, might it not be the wisest thing, to be away from each other for a time? Why, even this little while—a single night of Burke's being gone—had shown her where she stood!—had shown her where it was all leading to! Of course it was the best way, and Burke had seen it. It was right that he should go. And had they not provided for her? She was to go— There was a check somewhere—
Burrowing in her lap under Dorothy Elizabeth's warm little body, Helen dragged forth an oblong bit of crumpled paper. Carefully she spread it flat. The next moment her eyes flew wide open.
One thousand dollars! No,tenthousand! It couldn't be! But it was. Ten thousand dollars! And she had been scolding and blaming them, when all the time they had been so generous! And it reallywasthe best way, too, that they should be apart for a while. It would give her a chance to adjust herself and practice—and it would need some practice if she were really going to be that daintily gowned young wife welcoming her husband to a well-kept home! And with ten thousand dollars! What couldn't they get with ten thousand dollars?
Dorothy Elizabeth, at that moment, emitted a sharp, frightened cry. For how was Dorothy Elizabethto know that the spasmodic pressure that so hurt her was really only a ten-thousand-dollar hug of joy?
In less than half an hour, Helen, leaving the baby with Bridget, had sought Mrs. Cobb. She could keep her good news no longer.
"I came to tell you. I'm going away—Baby and I," she announced joyously. "We're going next week."
"Jiminy! You don't say so! But you don't mean you're goin' away terlive?"
"Oh, no. Just for a visit to my old home town where I was born—only 'twill be a good long one. You see, we need a rest and a change so much—Baby and I do." There was a shade of importance in voice and manner.
"That you do!" exclaimed Mrs. Cobb, with emphasis. "And I'm glad you're goin'. But, sakes alive, I'm goin' ter miss ye, child!"
"I shall miss you, too," beamed Helen cordially.
"How long you goin' ter be gone?"
"I don't know, exactly. It'll depend, some, on Burke—I mean Mr. Denby—when he wants me to come back."
"Oh, ain't he goin', too?" An indefinable change came to Mrs. Cobb's voice.
"Oh, no, not with us," smiled Helen. "He's going to Alaska."
"To—Alaska! And, pray, what's he chasin' off to a heathen country like that for?"
"Tisn't heathen—Alaska isn't," flashed Helen, vaguely irritated without knowing why. "Heathen countries are—are always hot. Alaska's cold. Isn't Alaska up north—to the pole, 'most? It used to be, when I went to school."
"Maybe 'tis; but that ain't sayin' why he's goin' there, instead of with you," retorted Mrs. Cobb. In spite of the bantering tone in which this was uttered, disapproval was plainly evident in Mrs. Cobb's voice.
"He's going with his father," answered Helen, with some dignity.
"His father! Humph!"
This time the disapproval was so unmistakably evident that Helen flamed into prompt defense, in righteous, wifely indignation.
"I don't know why you speak like that, Mrs. Cobb. Hasn't he got a right to go with his father, if he wants to? Besides, his father needs him. Burke says he does."
"Andyoudon't need him, I s'pose," flamed Mrs. Cobb, in her turn, nettled that her sympathetic interest should meet with so poor a welcome. "Of course it's none of my business, Mis' Denby, but it seems a shame to me for him ter let you and the baby go off alone like this, and so I spoke right out. I always speak right out—what I think."
Helen flushed angrily. However much she might find fault with her husband herself, she suddenly discovered a strong disinclination to allowing anyone else to do so. Besides, now, when he and his father had been so kind and generous—! She had not meant to tell Mrs. Cobb of the ten-thousand-dollar check, lest it lead to unpleasant questioning as to why it was sent. But now, in the face of Mrs. Cobb's unjust criticism, she flung caution aside.
"You're very kind," she began, a bit haughtily; "but, you see, this time you have made a slight mistake. I don't think it's a shame at all for him to go away with his father who needs him; and you won't, when you know what they've sent me. They sent me a check this afternoon for ten thousand dollars."
"Ten—thousand—dollars!"
"Yes," bowed Helen, with a triumphant "I-told-you-so" air, as Mrs. Cobb's eyes seemed almost to pop out of her head. "They sent it this very afternoon."
"For the land's sake!" breathed Mrs. Cobb. Then, as her dazed wits began to collect themselves, a new look came to her eyes. "Theysentit?" she cried.
"By special messenger—yes," bowed Helen, again importantly.
"But how funny tosendit, instead of bringing it himself—your husband, I mean."
Too late Helen saw her mistake. In a panic, now, lest unpleasant truths be discovered, she assumed an especially light, cheerful manner.
"Oh, no, I don't think it was funny a bit. He—he wanted it a surprise, I guess. And he wrote—aletter, you know. A lovely letter, all about what a good time Baby and I could have with the money."
The suspicion in Mrs. Cobb's eyes became swift conviction. An angry red stained her cheeks—but it was not anger at Helen. That was clearly to be seen.
"Look a-here, Mis' Denby," she began resolutely, "I'm a plain woman, and I always speak right out. And I'm your friend, too, and I ain't goin' ter stand by and see you made a fool of, and not try ter lift a hand ter help. There's somethin' wrong here. If you don't know it, it's time you did. If youdoknow it, and are tryin' ter keep it from me, you might just as well stop right now, and turn 'round and tell me all about it. As I said before, I'm your friend, and—if it's what I think it is—you'llneeda friend, you poor little thing! Now, what is it?"
Helen shook her head feebly. Her face went from white to red, and back again to white. Still determined to keep her secret if possible, she made a brave attempt to regain her old airiness of manner.
"Why, Mrs. Cobb, it's nothing—nothing at all!"
Mrs. Cobb exploded into voluble wrath.
"Nothin', is it?—when a man goes kitin' off ter Alaska, and sendin' his wife ten thousand dollars ter go somewheres else in the opposite direction! Maybe you think I don't know what that means. But I do! And he's tryin' ter play a mean, snivelin' trick on ye, and I ain't goin' ter stand for it. I neverdid like him, with all his fine, lordly airs, a-thinkin' himself better than anybody else what walked the earth. But if I can help it, I ain't goin' ter see you cheated out of your just deserts."
"Mrs. Cobb!" expostulated the dismayed, dumfounded wife; but Mrs. Cobb had yet more to say.
"I tell you they're rich—them Denbys be—rich as mud; and as for pokin' you off with a measly ten thousand dollars, they shan't—and you with a baby ter try ter bring up and edyercate. The idea of your standin' for a separation with only ten thousand—"
"Separation!" interrupted Helen indignantly, as soon as she could find her voice. "It isn't a separation. Why, we never thought of such a thing;—not for—foralways, the way you mean it."
"What is it, then?"
"Why, it's just a—a playday," stammered Helen, still trying to cling to the remnant of her secret. "Hesaidit was a playday—that I was to go off and have a good time with Baby."
"If it's just a playday, why didn't he give it to you ter take ittergether, then? Tell me that!"
"Why, he—he's going with his father."
"You bet he is," retorted Mrs. Cobb grimly. "And he's goin' ter keep with his father, too."
"What do you mean?" Helen's lips were very white.
Mrs. Cobb gave an impatient gesture.
"Look a-here, child, do you think I'm blind? Don't ye s'pose I know how you folks have beengettin' along tergether?—or, rather,notgettin' along tergether? Don't ye s'pose I know how he acts as if you wasn't the same breed o' cats with him?"
"Then you've seen—I mean, you think he's—ashamed of me?" faltered Helen.
"Think it! Iknowit," snapped Mrs. Cobb, ruthlessly freeing her mind, regardless of the very evident suffering on her listener's face; "and it's just made my blood boil. Time an' again I've thought of speakin' up an' tellin' ye I jest wouldn't stand it, if I was you. But I didn't. I ain't no hand ter butt in where it don't concern me. But ter see you so plumb fooled with that ten thousand dollars—I jest can't stand it no longer. Ihadter speak up. Turnin' you off with a beggarly ten thousand dollars—and them with all that money! Bah!"
"But, Mrs. Cobb, maybe he's coming back," stammered Helen faintly, with white lips.
"Pshaw! So maybe the sun'll rise in the west termorrer," scoffed Mrs. Cobb; "but I ain't pullin' down my winder shades for it yet. No, he won't come back—teryou, Mis' Denby."
"But he—he don't say it's for—for all time."
"'Course he don't. But, ye see, he thinks he's lettin' ye down easy—a-sendin' ye that big check, an' tellin' ye ter take a playday. He don't want ye ter suspect, yet, an' make a fuss. He's countin' on bein' miles away when yedowake up an' start somethin'. That's why I'm a-talkin' to ye now—terput ye wise ter things. I ain't goin' ter stand by an' see you bamboozled. Now do you go an' put on your things an' march up there straight. I'll take care of the baby, an' be glad to, if you don't want ter leave her with Bridget."
"I go up there?" Helen's voice was full of dismayed protest.
"Sure! You brace right up to 'em, an' tell 'em you've caught on ter their little scheme, and you ain't goin' ter stand for no such nonsense. If he wants ter git rid of you an' the baby, all well an' good. That is, I'm takin' it for granted that you wouldn't fight it—the divorce, I mean."
"Divorce!" almost shrieked Helen.
"But that he's got ter treat ye fair and square, an' give ye somewheres near what's due ye," went on Mrs. Cobb, without apparently noticing Helen's horrified exclamation. "Now don't cry; and, above all things, don't let 'em think they've scared ye. Just brace right up an' tell 'em what's what."
"Oh, but Mrs. Cobb, I—I—" With a choking sob and a hysterical shake of her head, Helen turned and fled down the hall to her own door. Once inside her apartment she stumbled over to the crib and caught the sleeping Dorothy Elizabeth into her arms.
"Oh, Baby, Baby, it's all over—all over," she moaned. "I can't ever be a daintily gowned wife welcoming him to a well-kept home now. Never—never! I can't welcome him at all. He isn't comingback. He doesn'twantto come back. He's ashamed of us, Baby,—ashamed of us!"
Dorothy Elizabeth, roused from her nap and convulsively clutched in a pair of nervous hands, began to whimper restlessly.
"No, no, Baby, not of you," sobbed Helen, rocking the child back and forth in her arms. "It was me—just me he was ashamed of. What shall I do, whatshallI do?"
"And I thought it was just as he said," she went on chokingly, after a moment's pause. "I thought it was a vacation he wanted us to take, 'cause we—we got on each other's nerves. But it wasn't, Baby,—it wasn't; and I see it now. He's ashamed of me. He's always been ashamed of me, 'way back when Dr. Gleason first came—he was ashamed of me then, Baby. He was. I know he was. And now he wants to get away—quite away, and never come back. And he calls it avacation! And he saysI'mto have one, too, and I must tell him all about it when he comes down next week. Maybe he thinks I will.Maybe he thinks I will!
"We won't be here, Baby,—we won't! We'll go somewhere—somewhere—anywhere!—before he gets here," she raved, burying her face in the baby's neck and sobbing hysterically.
Once again Helen passed a sleepless night. Never questioning now Mrs. Cobb's interpretation of her husband's conduct, there remained only a decision as to her own course of action. That she could notbe there when her husband came to make ready for his journey, she was convinced. She told herself fiercely that she would take herself and the baby away—quite away out of his sight. He should not be shamed again by the sight of her. But she knew in her heart that she was fleeing because she dared not go through that last meeting with her husband, lest she should break down. And she did not want to break down. If Burke did not wanther, was it likely she was going to cry and whine, and let him know that shedidwant him? Certainly not!
Helen's lips came together in a thin, straight line, in spite of her trembling chin. Between her hurt love and her wounded pride, Helen was in just that state of hysterics and heroics to do almost anything—except something sane and sober.
First, to get away. On that she was determined. But where to go—that was the question. As for going back to the old home town—as Burke had suggested—thatshe would not do—now. Did they think, then, that she was going back there among her old friends to be laughed at, and gibed at? What if she did have ten thousand dollars to spend on frills and finery to dazzle their eyes? How long would it be before the whole town found out, as had Mrs. Cobb, that that ten thousand dollars was the price Burke Denby had paid for his freedom from the wife he was ashamed of? Never! She would not go there. But where could she go?
It was then that a plan came to her—a plan sowild and dazzling that even her frenzied aspiration scouted it at first as impossible. But it came again and again; and before long her fancy was playing with it, and turning it about with a wistful "Of course, if I could!" which in time became a hesitating "And maybe, after all, Icoulddo it," only to settle at last into a breathlessly triumphant "I will!"
After that things moved very swiftly in the little Denby flat. It was Saturday morning, and there was no time to lose.
First, Helen gathered all the cash she had in the house, not forgetting the baby's bank (which yielded the biggest sum of all), and counted it. She had nineteen dollars and seventeen cents. Then she rummaged among her husband's letters and papers until she found a letter from Dr. Gleason bearing his Boston address. Next, with Bridget to help her, she flung into her trunk everything belonging to herself and the baby that it was possible to crowd in, save the garments laid out to wear. By three o'clock Bridget was paid and dismissed, and Helen, with Dorothy Elizabeth, was waiting for the carriage to take them to the railroad station.
With the same tearless exaltation that had carried her through the prodigious tasks of the morning, Helen picked up her bag and Dorothy Elizabeth, and followed her trunk down the stairs and out to the street. She gave not one backward glance to the little home, and she carefully avoided anything but an airy "Good-bye" to the watching Mrs. Cobb inthe window on the other side. Not until the wheels began to turn, and the journey was really begun, did Helen's tearless exaltation become the frightened anxiety of one who finds herself adrift on an uncharted sea.
Then Helen began to cry.
In a roomy old house on Beacon Hill Dr. Frank Gleason made his home with his sister, Mrs. Ellery Thayer. The family were at their North Shore cottage, however, and only the doctor was at home on the night that Hawkins, the Thayers' old family butler, appeared at the library door with the somewhat disconcerting information that a young person with a baby and a bag was at the door and wished to speak to Dr. Gleason.
The doctor looked up in surprise.
"Me?" he questioned. "A woman? She must mean Mrs. Thayer."
"She said you, sir. And she isn't a patient. I asked her, thinking she might have made a mistake and took you for a real doctor what practices. She said she didn't want doctoring. She wanted you. She's a young person I never saw before, sir."
"But, good Heavens, man, it's after eleven o'clock!"
"Yes, sir." On the manservant's face was an expression of lively curiosity and disapproval, mingled with a subdued but unholy mirth which was not lost on the doctor, and which particularly exasperated him.
"What in thunder can a woman with a baby wantof me at this time of— What's her name?" demanded the doctor.
"She didn't say, sir."
"Well, go ask her."
The butler coughed slightly, but made no move to leave the room.
"I did ask her, sir. She declined to give it."
"Declined to— Well, I like her impertinence."
"Yes, sir. She said you'd"—the servant's voice faltered and swerved ever so slightly from its well-trained impassiveness—"er—understand, sir."
"She said I'd—the deuce she did!" exploded the doctor under his breath, flushing an angry red and leaping to his feet. "Didn't you tell her Mrs. Thayer was gone?" he demanded at last, wheeling savagely.
"I did, sir, and—"
"Well?"
"She said she was glad; that she wanted only you, anyway."
"Wanted only—!Comes here at this time of night with a bag and a baby, refuses to give her name, and says I'll understand!" snarled the doctor. "Oh, come, Hawkins, this is some colossal mistake, or a fool hoax, or— What kind of looking specimen is she?"
Hawkins, who had known the doctor from his Knickerbocker days, was guilty of a slow grin.
"She's a—a very good looker, sir."
"Oh, she is! Well—er, tell her I can't possibly see her; that I've gone to bed—away—sick—something!Anything! Tell her she'll have to see Mrs. Thayer."
"Yes, sir." Still the man made no move to go. "She—er—beg pardon, sir—but she'll be that cut up, I fear, sir. You see, she's been cryin'. And she's young—very young."
"Crying!"
"Yes, sir. And she was that powerful anxious to see you, sir. I had hard work to keep her from comingwithme. I did, sir. She's in the hall. And—it's raining outside, sir."
"Oh, good Heavens! Well, bring her in," capitulated the doctor in obvious desperation.
"Yes, sir." This time the words were scarcely out of his mouth before the old man was gone. In an incredibly short time he was back with a flushed-faced, agitated young woman carrying a sleeping child in her arms.
At sight of her, the doctor, who had plainly braced himself behind a most forbidding aspect, leaped forward with a low cry and a complete change of manner.
"Mrs. Denby!" he gasped. But instantly he fell back; for the young woman, for all the world like a tenpenny-dreadful stage heroine, hissed out a tragic "Sh-h! I don't want anybody to know my name!" with a cautious glance toward the none-too-rapidly disappearing Hawkins.
"But what does this mean?" demanded Frank Gleason, when he could find words. "Where's Burke?"
"He's left me."
"Left you! Impossible!"
"Yes." She drew in her breath convulsively. "He says it's only to Alaska with his father; but that's just to let me down easy."
"Oh, but, Mrs. Denby—"
"You needn't try to make me think any different," she interposed wearily, sinking into the chair the doctor placed for her; "'cause you can't. I've been over everything you could say. All the way down here I didn't have anything to do only just to think and think. And I see now—such lots of things that I never saw before."
"But, why—how do you know—what made you think he has—left you?" stammered the doctor.
"Because he's ashamed of me; and—"
"Oh, Mrs. Denby!"
"You don't have to say anything about that, either," said Mrs. Denby very quietly. And before the dumb agony in the eyes turned full upon him, he fell silent.
"There ain't any question as to whathasbeen done; it's just what I'mgoingtodo," she went on wearily again. "He sent me ten thousand dollars—Burke's father did; and—"
"John Denby sent you ten thousand dollars!" exploded the doctor, sitting erect.
"Yes; a check. I've got it here. He sent it for a playday, you know," nodded Mrs. Denby, shifting the weight of the heavy baby in her arms. "And—and that's why I came to you."
"To—to me," stammered the doctor, growing suddenly alertly miserable and nervous again. "A—a playday! But I—I—that is—how—"
"Oh, I'm not going to take the playday. I couldn't eventhinkplay—now," she choked. "It's—" Then in a breathless burst it came. "Doctor, you can—youwillhelp me, won't you?—to learn to stand and walk and talk and eat soup and wear the right clothes and finger nails and hair, you know, and not say the wrong things, and everything the way Burke's friends do—you and all the rest of them—youknow, soIcan be swell and grand, too, and he won't be ashamed of me! Andisten thousand dollars enough to pay—for learning all that?"
From sheer inability to speak, the man could only fall back in his chair and stare dumbly.
"Please,pleasedon't look at me like that," besought the young woman frenziedly. "It's just as if you said youcouldn'thelp me. But you can! I know you can. And I candoit. I know that, too. I read it in a book, once, about a girl who—who was like me. And she went away and got perfectly grand clothes, and learning, and all; and then she came back; and he—he didn't know her at first—her husband, and he fell in love with her all over again. And she didn't have near so much money as I've got. Doctor, youwillhelp me?"
The doctor, with his shocked, amazed eyes on the piteously pleading face opposite, threw up his hands in despair.
"But I—you—Burke— Oh, Heavens, my dear lady! How utterly, utterly impossible this all is! Come, come, what am I thinking of?—and you with not even your hat off yet! And that child! I'll call Hawkins at once. He and his wife are all there are left here, just now,—my sister's at the beach. But they'll make you and little Miss Dorothy Elizabeth here comfortable for the night. Then, to-morrow, after a good sleep, we'll—we'll fix it all up. I'll get Burke on the long distance, and—"
"Dr. Gleason," interrupted Helen Denby, with a calmness that would have deceived him had he not seen her eyes, "my husband isn't worrying about me. He thinks I'm at home now. When he finds I'm not, he'll think I've gone to my old home town where hetoldme to go for a visit. He won't worry then. So that's all right. Don't you see? He's sent me away—sentme. If you tell him now that I am here, I will walk right straight out of that door, and neither you nor him nor anybody else I know shall ever see me again."
"Oh, come, come," protested the doctor, again helplessly.
Once more Helen interrupted.
"Doctor, why can't you be straight with me?" she pleaded. "I had to come to you. There wasn't anybody else Icouldgo to. And there isn't any other way out of it—but this. I tell you I've been doing somethinking. All the way down here it's been just think, think, think."
The doctor wet his lips.
"But, if—if Burke knew—"
"Look a-here," cut in Helen resolutely, "you've been to our house quite a lot since Burke and me was married. You think I made Burke real happy, don't you?"
There was no answer.
"You might just as well say the words with your lips, Doctor. Your face has said them," observed Helen, a little dryly.
"Well—no, then;—but I feel like a brute to say it."
"You needn't. I made you. Besides, I'm glad to have you say it. We're right out in the open, now, and maybe we can get somewhere. Look a-here, do you know?—for the first time in my life to-day I was sorry for John Denby. I was! I got to thinking, with Dorothy Elizabeth all safe and snug in my arms, how, by and by, she'd be a little girl, and then a young lady. And she was so sweet and pretty, and—and Ilovedher so! And I got to thinking how I'd feel if somebody took her away from me the way I took Burke away from his father, and married her when I didn't want her to, any more 'n Burke's father wantedhimto; and I—I could see then how he must have felt, worshiping Burke as he did. I know—I used to see them together, when I was nurse there with Mrs. Allen's children. I never saw a father and son so much like—chums. He doted on Burke. I know now how he felt. And—andit's turned out the way he said. I hain't been the one for Burke at all. I've—I've dragged him down."
"Mrs. Denby, please—" begged the doctor.
But she paused only long enough to shake her head.
"Yes, I have. I know. I've been thinking it all over—the life we've led together, and what he might have had, if he hadn't had—if it hadn't been for me. And that's why, now, I want to see if—if I can't learn how to—to make him not ashamed of me. And it ain't for me, only, it's for Dorothy Elizabeth. I want to teach her. It's bad enough to have him ashamed of me; but I—I just couldn't stand it if he should ever be—be ashamed of—her. And now—won't you help me, please? Remember, Burke don'twantme at home, now, so I'm not displeasing him.Won'tyou help me? It's my only—chance!"
The doctor sprang to his feet. His eyes were moist and his voice shook when he spoke.
"Help you! I'll help you to—to bring down the moon and all the stars, if you say the word! Mrs. Denby, you're a—a little brick, and there's no end to the way I respect and admire you. Of course I'll help you—somehow. ThoughhowI haven't the faintest idea. Meanwhile you must get some rest. As I told you, my sister is at the beach, and there are only Hawkins and his wife here to keep the house open. But they'll make you comfortable for thenight, and we'll see to-morrow what can be done. We'll have some kind of a plan," he finished, as he crossed the room to ring the bell.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" breathed Helen. "But, remember, please, I'm not Mrs. Denby. I'm Mrs. Darling—my mother's maiden name," she begged in a panic, as the doctor touched the bell.
True to his promise, Frank Gleason had a plan, of a sort, ready by morning. He told it at the breakfast table.
"I'm going to take you to my sister, provided, of course, that you agree," he announced. "Five minutes' talk with her on this matter will be worth five years' with me. I shouldn't wonder if she kept you herself,—for a time, with her. And you couldn't be in a better place. Perhaps you'll be willing to help her with the children—and she'll be glad of that, I know."
"But—my money—can't I pay—money?" faltered Helen.
He shook his head.
"Not if we can help it. Your money you'll need later for Miss Dorothy—unless you are willing to make yourself known to your husband sooner than you seem now to be willing to. We'll invest it in something safe and solid, and it'll bring you in a few hundred a year. You'll have that to spend; and that will go quite a way—under some circumstances."
"But I—I want to—to learn things, you know," stammered Helen; "how to be—be—"
"You'll learn—lots of things, if you live with my sister," remarked the doctor significantly.
"Oh!" smiled Helen, with a sigh of relief and content.
The doctor sighed, too,—though not at all with either relief or content. To the doctor, the task before him loomed as absurd and unreal as if it were, indeed, the pulling-down of the stars and the moon—the carrying-out of his extravagant promise of the night before.
Burke Denby was well pleased with the letter that he had sent to his wife, enclosing the ten-thousand-dollar check. He felt that it was both conclusive and diplomatic; and he believed that it carried a frankness that would prove to be disarming. He had every confidence that Helen would eventually (if not at once) recognize its logic and reasonableness, and follow its suggestions. With a light heart, therefore, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of the day with his father. By Saturday, however, a lively curiosity began to assail him as to just how Helen did take the note, after all. There also came unpleasantly to him a recurrence of the uncomfortable feeling that his abrupt departure from home Thursday night had been neither brave nor kind, and, in fact, hardly decent, under the circumstances. He decided that he would, when he saw Helen, really quite humble himself and apologize roundly. It was no more than her due, poor girl!
By Sunday, between his curiosity and his uneasy remorse, he was too nervous really to enjoy anything to the full; but he sternly adhered to his original plan of not going down to the Dale Street flat before Monday, believing, in his heart, that nothing could do so much good to both of them, under thecircumstances, as a few days of thought apart from each other. Monday, however, found him headed for Dale Street; but in an hour he was back at Elm Hill. He was plainly very angry.
"She's gone," he announced, with a brevity more eloquent of his state of mind than a flood of words would have been.
"Gone! Where?"
"Home—to spend that ten thousand dollars, of course. She left this."
With a frown John Denby took the proffered bit of paper upon which had been scrawled:—
I hope you'll enjoy your playday as much as I shall mine. Address me at Wenton—if you care to write.
I hope you'll enjoy your playday as much as I shall mine. Address me at Wenton—if you care to write.
Helen.
"Where did you find this?"
"On my chiffonier. I didn't think that—of Helen."
"And there was nothing to showwhenshe left?"
"Nothing—except that the apartment was in spick-and-span order from end to end; andthatmust have takensometime to accomplish."
"But perhaps the neighbors would—"
"There's no one she knows but Mrs. Cobb," interrupted Burke, with an impatient gesture. "Do you suppose I'm going to her and whimper, 'My wife's gone. Please, do you know when she went?' Not much! I saw her—the dear creature! And one glance at her face showed that she was dying to be asked. But I didn't afford her that satisfaction. Igave her a particularly blithe 'Good-morning,' and then walked away as if I'dknownI was coming home to an empty house all the time. But, I repeat, I'm disappointed. I didn't think this of Helen—running off like this!"
"You think she was angry, then, at your letter?"
"Of course she was—at that, and at the way I left her the other night. Iwasa bit of a cad there, I'll admit; but that doesn't excuse her for doing a trick like this. I wrote her a good letter, and you sent her a very generous check; and I told her I was coming to-day to pick up my traps and say good-bye. She didn't care to see me—that's all. But she might have had some thought that I'd like to see my daughter before I go. If there was time I'd run up there. But it's out of the question—with only to-morrow before we start."
"Wenton is her home town, I suppose."
"Yes. She left there, you know, two years before I saw her. Her father died and then her mother; and she had to look out for herself. I shall write, of course, and send it up before I go. And I shall try to write decently; but I will own up, father, I'm mad clear through."
"Too bad, too bad!" John Denby frowned and shook his head again. "I must confess, Burke, that I, too, didn't quite think this—of Helen."
"I don't know her street address, of course." Burke was on his feet, pacing back and forth. "But that isn't necessary. It's a small town—I know that.I told her I thought she'd like the hotel best; but she may prefer to go to some friend's home. However, that doesn't signify. She'll get it all right, if I direct it simply to Wenton. But I can't have a reply before I leave. There isn't time, even if she deigned to write—which I doubt, in her present evident frame of mind. Pleasant, isn't it? Makes me feel real happy to start off with, to-morrow!"
"No, of course it doesn't," admitted John Denby, with a sigh. "But, come, Burke,"—his eyes grew wistful,—"don't let this silly whim of Helen's spoil everything. Fretting never did help anything, and perhaps, after all, it's the best thing that could have happened. A meeting between you, in Helen's present temper, could have resulted only in unhappiness. Obviously Helen is piqued and angry at your suggesting a separation for a time. She determined to give it to you—but to give it to you a little sooner than you wanted. That's her way of getting back at you. That's all. Let her alone. She'll come to her senses in time. Oh,write, of course," he hastened to add, in answer to the expression on his son's face. "But don't expect a reply too soon. You must remember you gave Helen a pretty big blow to her pride. Iwishshe had looked at the matter sensibly, of course; but probably that was too much to expect."
"I'm afraid it was—of—" Biting his lips, Burke pulled himself up sharply. "I'll go and write my letter," he finished wearily, instead.
And John Denby echoed the long sigh he drew.
It was January when John Denby and his son returned from their Alaskan trip. The long and rather serious illness of John Denby in November, and the necessary slowness of their journeying thereafter, had caused a series of delays very trying to both father and son.
To neither John Denby nor Burke had the trip been an entire success. Burke, in spite of his joy at being with his father and his delight in the traveling itself, could not get away from the shadow of an upturned bottle of ink in a Dale Street flat. At times, with all the old boyish enthusiasm and lightness of heart, he entered into whatever came; but underneath it all, and forever cropping uppermost, was a surge of anger, a bitterness of heart.
Not once, through the entire trip, had Burke heard from his wife. Their mail, of course, had been infrequent and irregular; but, from time to time, a batch of letters would be found waiting for them, and always, with feverish eagerness, Burke had scanned the envelopes for a sight of Helen's familiar scrawl. He had never found it, and he was very angry thereat. He was not worried or frightened. Any Denby of the Dalton Denbys was too well known not to have any vital information concerning him or her communicated to the family headquarters. If anything had happened to either Helen or the child, he would have known of it, of course, through Brett. This silence could mean, therefore, but one thing: Helen's own wish that he should not hear. He feltthat he had a right to be angry. He pictured Helen happy, gay in her new finery, queening it over her old school friends in Wenton, and nursing wrath and resentment against himself (else why did she not write?)—and the picture did not please him.
He had suggested separation (for a time), to be sure; but he had not suggested total annihilation of all intercourse! If she did not care to say anything for herself, she might, at least, be decent enough to let him hear as to the welfare of his child, he reasoned indignantly.
On one course of action he was determined. As soon as he returned home he would go to Helen and have it out with her. If shewishedto carry to such absurd lengths her unreasonable pique at his perfectly reasonable suggestion, he wanted to know it at once, and not live along this way!
Under these circumstances it is not strange, perhaps, that the trip, for Burke, was not an unalloyed joy; and the delays, in addition to giving him no little anxiety for his father, fretted him almost beyond endurance.
As to John Denby—he, too, could not get away from the shadow of an upturned bottle of ink. Besides suffering the reflection of its effect on his son, in that son's moodiness and frequent lack of enthusiasm, he had no small amount of it on his own account.
Burke's word-picture of that evening's catastrophe had been a vivid one; and John Denby could not forget it. He realized that it meant much in manyways. The fact that it had been followed by Helen's ominous silence did not lessen his uneasy questionings. He wondered if, after all, he had done the wise thing in bringing about this temporary separation. He still believed, in his heart, that he had. But he did not seem to find much happiness in that belief. In spite of his supreme joy and content in his son's companionship, he found himself many a time almost wishing the trip were over. And the delays at the end were fully as great a source of annoyance to himself, as they were to his son. He, as well as Burke, therefore, heaved a long sigh of relief as the train drew into the Dalton station, bringing into view the old Denby family carriage (John Denby did not care for motor cars), with old Horace on the box, and with Brett near by, plainly waiting to extend a welcoming hand. Brett's face was white and a little strained-looking. John Denby, noticing it through the car window, remarked to his son:—
"Guess Brett will be glad to see us. He looks tired. Overworked, I fear. Faithful fellow—that, Burke! We owe him our trip, anyway. But who supposed it was going to prolong itself away into January like this?"
"Who did, indeed?" murmured Burke, as he followed his father from the car.
Burke Denby had not been at home half an hour, when, his face drawn and ashen, he strode into the library where his father was sitting before the fire.
"Father, Helen has not been at Wenton at all," he said in the tragically constrained voice of a man who is desperately trying to keep himself from exploding into ravings and denunciations.
John Denby came erect in his chair.
"Not been there— What do you mean? How do you know?"
"Brett. I found these upstairs in my room—every letter I've written her—even the first one from here before I left—returned unopened, marked 'unclaimed, address unknown,' together with a letter from Brett in explanation. I've just been talking with him on the 'phone, too."
"So that's it—why he looked so at the station! What did he say? Why didn't he let you know before?"
"He says it was a long time before the first letter came back. He knew we were away up in the mountains, and would be very likely started for home before he could reach us with it, anyway. And there wouldn't be a thing we could do—up there, except to come home; and we'd already be doing that, anyway. And this would only worry us, and trouble us, and make our return trip a horror—without helping a bit."
"Quite right. Brett is always right," nodded John Denby.
"Then, of course, came the delay, your sickness, and all. Of course he wouldn't let us know then—when wecouldn'tcome. By that time other lettersI had written on the way out began to come back from Wenton. (I always used my own envelopes with the Dalton address in the corner, so of course they all showed up here in time.) When the second and third came he knew it wasn't a mistake. He'd been hoping the first one was, somehow, he said."
"Yes, yes, I see. And of course it might have been. But what did he do? Didn't he do—anything?"
"Yes. First, he said, he kept his own counsel—here in town. He knew we'd want to avoid all gossip and publicity."
"Of course!"
"He put the thing into the hands of a private detective whom he could trust; and he went himself to Wenton—for a vacation, apparently."
"Good old Brett! Wise, as usual. What did he find?"
"Nothing—except that she was not there, and hadn't been there since she left some years ago, soon after her mother's death. He says he's positive of that. So he had to come back no wiser than he went."
"But—the detective."
"Very little there. Still, there was something. He traced her to Boston."
"Boston!"
"Yes."
"What friends has she in Boston?"
"None, so far as I know. I never heard her mention knowing a soul there. Still, I believe she had a—a position there with some one, before she went to Aunt Eunice; but I don't know who it was."
"There's Gleason—she knows him."
Burke gave his father a glance from scornful eyes.
"My best friend! She'd be apt to go to him, wouldn't she, if she were running away from me? Besides, we've had three or four letters from him since we've been gone. Don't you suppose he'd tell us of it, if she'd gone to him?"
"Yes, yes, of course," frowned John Denby, biting his lips. "It's only that I was trying to get hold of some one—or something. Think of it—that child alone in Boston, and—no friends! Of course she had money—that is, I suppose she cashed it—that check?" John Denby turned with a start.
"Oh, yes. I asked Brett about that. I hoped maybe there'd be a clue there, if she got somebody to cash it for her. But there was nothing. She got the money herself, at the bank here, not long after we went. So she must have come back for a time, anyway. Brett says Spawlding, at the bank, knew her, of course, and so there was no question as to identification. Still it was so large a one that he telephoned to Brett, before he paid it, asking if it were all right—you being away. Brett evidently knew you had given her such a check—"
"Yes, I had told him," nodded John Denby.
"So he said yes, it was. He says he supposed she had come down from Wenton to get it cashed, and that she would leave the bulk of it there in the bank to her credit. Anyway, all he could do was to assureSpawlding that you had given her such a check just before you went away."
"Yes, yes, I see," nodded John Denby again.
"She didn't leave any of the money, however. She took it all with her."
"Took itall—ten thousand dollars!"
"Yes. The detective, of course, is still working on the case. He got to Boston, but there he's up against a blank wall. He's run a fine-tooth comb through all sorts of public and private institutions in Boston and vicinity without avail. He's made a thorough search at the railroad station. He can't find a person who has any recollection of a young woman and child answering their description, arriving on that date, who seemed to be troubled or in doubt where to go. He questioned the matron, ticket-men, cabbies, policemen—everybody. Of course every one had seen plenty of young women with babies in their arms—young women who had the hair and eyes and general appearance of Helen, and who were anxious and fretted. (They said young women with babies were apt to be anxious and fretted.) But they didn't remember one who asked frantic questions as to what to do, and where to go, and all that—acting as we think Helen would have acted, alone in a strange city."
"Poor child, poor child!" groaned John Denby. "Where can—"
But his son interrupted sternly.
"I don'tknowwhere she is, of course. But don'tbe too sure it is 'poor child' with her, dad. She's doing this thing because shewantsto do it. Don't forget that. Didn't she purposely mislead us by that note she left on my chiffonier? She didn't say shehadgone to Wenton, but she let me think she had. 'Address me at Wenton, if you care to write,' she said. And don't forget that she also said: 'I hope you'll enjoy your playday as much as I shall mine.' Don't you worry about Helen. She's taken my child and your ten thousand dollars, and she's off somewhere, having a good time;—and Helen could have a good time—on ten thousand dollars! Incidentally she's also punishing us. She means to give us a good scare. She's waiting till we get home, and till the money's gone. Then she'll let herself be found."
"Oh, come, come, Burke, aren't you just a little bit—harsh?" remonstrated John Denby.
"I don't think so. She deserves—something for taking that child away like this. Honestly, as my temper is now, if it wasn't for the baby, I should feel almost like saying that I hoped she wouldn't ever come back. I don't want to see her. But, of course, with the baby, that's another matter."
"I should say so!" exclaimed John Denby emphatically.
"Yes; but, see here, dad! Helen knew where she was going. She's gone to friends. Wouldn't she have left some trace in that station if she'd been frightened and uncertain where to go? Brett says the detective found one cabby who remembered taking just sucha young woman and child from an evening train at about that time. He didn't recollect where he took her, and he couldn't say as to whether she had been crying, or not; but he's positive she directed him where to go without a moment's hesitation. If that was Helen, she knew where she was going all right."
John Denby frowned and did not answer. His eyes were troubled.
"But perhaps here—at the flat—" he began, after a time.
"The detective tried that. He went as a student, or something, and managed to hire a room of Mrs. Cobb. He became very friendly and chatty, and showed interest in all the neighbors, not forgetting the vacant flat on the same floor. But he didn't learn—much."
"But he learned—something?"
An angry red mounted to Burke's forehead.
"Oh, yes; he learned that it belonged to a poor little woman whose husband was as rich as mud, but quite the meanest thing alive, in that he'd tried to buy her off with ten thousand dollars, because he was ashamed of her! Just about what I should think would come from a woman of Mrs. Cobb's mentality!"
"Then she knew about the ten-thousand-dollar check?"
"Apparently. But she didn't know Helen had gone to Boston. The detective found out that. She told him she believed she'd gone back home to herfolks. So Helen evidently did not confide in her—or perhaps she intentionally misled her, as she did us."
"I see, I see," sighed John Denby.
For a minute the angry, perplexed, baffled young husband marched back and forth, back and forth, in the great, silent room. Then, abruptly, he stopped short, and faced his father.
"I shall try to find her, of course,—though I think she'll let us hear from her of her own accord, pretty soon, now. But I shan't wait for that. First I shall go to Aunt Eunice and see if she knows the names of any of the people with whom Helen used to live, before she came to her. Then, whatever clues I find I shall endeavor to follow to the end. Meanwhile, so far as Dalton is concerned,—my wife is out of town. That's all. It's no one's business. The matter will be hauled over every dinner-table and rolled under the tongue of every old tabby in town. But they can only surmise and suspect. They can't know anything about it. And we'll be mighty careful that they don't. Brett—bless him!—has been the soul of discretion. We'll see that we follow suit.My wife is out of town!That's all!" And he turned and flung himself from the room.
As soon as possible Burke Denby went to his Aunt Eunice and told her his sorry tale. From her he obtained one or two names, and—what he eagerly grasped at—an address in Boston. Each of these clues he followed assiduously, only to find that it led nowhere. Angrier, but no wiser, he went back home.
The detective, too, reported no progress. And as the days became weeks, and the weeks a month, with no word of Helen, Burke settled into a bitterness of wrath and resentment that would not brook the mention of Helen's name in his presence.
Burke was feeling very much abused these days. He was, indeed, thinking of himself and pitying himself almost constantly. The woman to whom he had given his name (and for whom he had sacrificed so much) had made that name a byword and a laughing stock in his native town. He was neither bachelor nor husband. He was not even a widower, but a nondescript thing to be pointed out as a sort of monster. Even his child was taken away from him; and was doubtless being brought up to hate him—Burke forgot that Dorothy Elizabeth was as yet but slightly over two years old.
As for Helen's side of the matter—Burke was too busy polishing his own shield of defense to give any consideration to hers. When he thought of his wife, it was usually only to say bitterly to himself: "Humph! When that ten thousand dollars is gone we'll hear from her all right!" And he was not worrying at all about her comfort—with ten thousand dollars to spend.
"She knows wheresheis, and she knows whereIam," he would declare fiercely to himself. "When she gets good and ready she'll come—and not until then, evidently!"
In March a line from Dr. Gleason said that hewould be in town a day or two, and would drop in to see them.
With the letter in his hand, Burke went to his father.
"Gleason's coming Friday," he announced tersely.
"Well?"
"We've got to settle on what to tell him."
"About—"
"Helen—yes. Of course—he'll have to know something; but—I shall tell him mighty little." Burke's lips snapped together in the grim manner that was becoming habitual with him.
Gleason came on Friday. There was an odd constraint in his manner. At the same time there was a nervous wistfulness that was almost an appeal. Yet he was making, obviously, a great effort to appear as usual.
Not until Burke found himself alone with his guest did he speak of his wife. Then he said:—
"You know, of course, that Helen has—er—that she is not here."
"Yes." There was a subdued excitement in the doctor's voice.
"Of course! Everybody knows that, I suppose," retorted Burke bitterly. He hesitated, then went on, with manifest effort: "If you don't mind, old fellow, we'll leave it—right there. There's really nothing that I care to say."
A look of keen disappointment crossed the doctor's face.
"But, Burke, if you knew that your wife—" began the doctor imploringly.
"There are no 'ifs' about it," interrupted Burke, with stern implacability. "Helen knows very well where I am, and—she isn't here. That's enough for me."
"But, my dear boy—" pleaded the doctor again.
"Gleason, please, I'd rather not talk about it," interrupted Burke Denby decidedly. And the doctor, in the face of the stern uncompromisingness of the man before him, and of his own solemn, but hard-wrung promise, given to a no less uncompromising little woman whom he had left only the day before, was forced to drop the matter. His face, however, still carried its look of troubled disappointment. And he steadfastly refused to remain at the house even for a meal—a most extraordinary proceeding for him.
"He's angry, and he's angry with me," muttered Burke Denby to himself, his eyes moodily fixed on the doctor's hurrying figure as it disappeared down the street. "He wanted to preach and plead, and tell me my 'duty.' As if I didn't know my own business best myself! Bah! A fig for his 'ifs' and 'buts'!"
Two days after his visit to Dalton, Frank Gleason dropped himself into a low chair in his sister's private sitting-room in the Beacon Hill house.
"Well?" prompted Mrs. Thayer, voice and manner impatiently eager.
"Nothing."
"Nothing! But there must have been something!"
"There wasn't a thing—that will help."
"But, aren't they frightened—anxious—anything? Don't theycarewhere she is?"
"Oh, yes; they care very much," smiled the doctor wearily; "but not in the way that is going to help any. I couldn't getanythingout of Burke, and I didn't get much more out of his father. But I did a little."
"They don't know, of course, that she's here?"
"Heavens, I hope not!—under the circumstances. But I felt all kinds of a knave and a fool and a traitor. I got away as soon as possible. I couldn't stay. I hoped to get something—anything—that I could use for a cudgel over Helen, to get her to go back, you know. But I couldn't get a thing. However, I shall keep on urging, of course."
"But whatdidthey say?"
"Burke said nothing, practically. Nor would helet me say anything. He is very angry (his father told me that), and very bitter."
"But isn't he frightened, or worried?"
"Not according to his father. It seems they have had a detective on the case, and have traced her to Boston. There the trail ends. But they have found out enough to feel satisfied that no evil has befallen her. Burke argues that Helen is staying somewhere (with friends, he believes) because she wants to. Such being the case he doesn't want her back until she gets good and ready to come. He does want the baby. John Denby told me, in fact, that he believed if Burke found them now, as he's feeling, he'd insist on a separation; and that the baby should be given to him."
"Given to him, indeed!" flashed Mrs. Thayer angrily. "And yet, in the face of that, you sit there and say you shall urge her to go back, of course."
Frank Gleason stirred uneasily.
"I know, Edith, but—"
"There isn't any question about it," interrupted Mrs. Thayer decidedly. "That poor child stays where she is now."
"Oh, but, Edith, this sort of thing can't go on forever, you know," remonstrated the doctor nervously, his forehead drawn into an anxious frown.
"I wasn't talking about forever," returned the lady, with tranquil confidence. "I was talking aboutnow, to-day, next week, next year, if it's necessary."
"Next year!"
"Certainly—if Burke Denby hasn't come to his senses by that time. Why, Frank Gleason, don't you suppose I'd do anything,everything, to help that child keep her baby? She worships it. Besides, it's going to be the making of her."
"I know; but if they could be brought together—Burke and his wife, I mean—it seems as if—as if—" The man came to a helpless pause.
"Frank, see here," began Edith Thayer resolutely. "You know as well as I do that those two people have been wretched together for a year or more. They are not suited to each other. They weren't in the first place. To make matters worse, they were both nothing but petted, spoiled children, no more fit to take on the responsibilities of marriage than my Bess and Charlie would be. All their lives they'd had their own dolls and shotguns to do as they pleased with; and when it came to marrying and sharing everything, including their time and their tempers, they flew into bits—both of them."
"Yes, I know," sighed the man, still with a troubled frown.
"Well, they're apart now. Never mind who was to blame for it, or whether it was or wasn't a wise move. It's done. They're apart. They've got a chance to think things over—to stand back and get a perspective, as it were. Helen thinks she can metamorphose herself into the perfect wife that Burke will love. Perhaps she can. Let us say she has one chance in a million of doing so;—well, I mean sheshall have that chance, especially as the alternative—that is, her going back home now—is sure to be nothing but utter wretchedness all round."
Frank Gleason shook his head.
"Yes, yes, very plausible—tosay, of course. I see she's talked you over. She did me. I was ready to pull the moon down for her footstool that first night she came to me. I'm ready to do it now—when I'm with her. But away from her, with a chance to think,—it really is absurd, you know, when you come right down to it. Here are Burke and his father, my good friends, hunting the country over for Burke's wife and child. And here am I, harboring her and abetting her, and never opening my head. Really, it's the sort of thing that you'd say—er—couldn't happen, you know."
"But itishappening; and so far as their finding her is concerned, you said yourself, long ago, that it was the safest hiding-place in the world, for they'd never think of looking in it. They've never been in the habit of coming here, and their friends don't know us. As for the servants, and the few of my friends who see her, she's merely Mrs. Darling. That's all. Besides, you're entirely leaving out of consideration Helen's own attitude in the matter. I haven't a doubt but that, if you did tell, she'd at leastattemptto carry out her crazy threats of flight and oblivion. Really, Frank, so far as being a friend is concerned, you're being the truest friend, both to Burke and his father, and to Helen, by keeping her and protecting herfrom herself and others—to say nothing of the real help I hope I'm being to her."
"I know, I know," sighed the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and scowling at the toe of his shoe. "You 're a brick, Edith! It's been simply marvelous to me—the way you've taken hold. Even that first awful Sunday morning last July, when I showed you what I'd brought you, didn't quite bowl you over."
"It did almost," laughed Edith; "especially when she blurted out that alarming speech, after you'd told me who she was."
"Whatdidshe say? I don't remember."
"She said, tragically, frenziedly: 'Oh, Mrs. Thayer, you will help me, won't you?—to be swell and grand andknowthings, so's Burke won't be ashamed of me. And if you can't makemeso, you will Baby, won't you? I'll do anything—everything you say. Oh, please say you will. Iknowyou're Burke's kind of folks, just to look at you, and at this—the house, and all these swell fixings! You will, won't you? Oh, please say you will!'"
"Gorry! Did she say that—all that?"
"Every bit of it—and more, that I can't remember. You see, I couldn't say anything—not anything, for a minute. And the more she said, the less Icouldsay. Probably she saw something of the horror and dismay in my face, and that's what made her so frenzied in her appeal."
"No wonder you were struck dumb at her nerveand at mine in asking you to take her in," laughed the doctor softly.
"Oh, but 'twas for only a minute. I capitulated at once, first because of the baby—she was such a dear!—then because of the mother's love for it. I thought I'd seen devotion, Frank, but never have I seen it like hers."
"How is she doing, really, about—well, er—this private self-improvement association of hers?" The doctor's smile was eager and quizzical. "I've been away so much, and I've seen so little of her for months past—howisshe doing?"
"Splendidly! She's a daily marvel to me, she's so patient and painstaking. Oh, of course, she hasn'tlearnedso very much—yet. But she's so alert and earnest, and she watches everything so! Indeed, if it weren't really so pitiful and so tragic, it would be perfectly funny and absurd. The things she does and says—the things she asks me to teach her! Feverishly and systematically she's set herself to becoming 'swell' and 'grand.'"
"Swell! Grand!"
"Oh, yes, I know," laughed the lady, answering his shuddering words and gesture. "And—we've nearly eliminated those expressions from our vocabulary now. Burke didn't like them either, she says."
"I can imagine not," observed the doctor dryly.
"Of course all the teaching in the world isn't going to accomplish the thing she wants," went on Mrs. Thayer, a little soberly. "I might teach hertill doomsday that clothes, jewels, grooming, and perfume don't make the lady; and unless she learns by intuition and absorption whatdoesmake the lady, she'll be little better off than she was before. But she puts me now through a daily catechism until sometimes I am nearly wild. 'Do ladies do this?' 'Do ladies do that?' she queries at every turn, so that I am almost ready to fly off into a veritable orgy of slang and silliness, just from sheer contrariety. I can tell you, Frank, this attempting to teach the intangible, evanescent thing I'm trying to teach Helen Denby isn't very easy. If you think it is, you try it yourself."