"Heaven forbid!" shrugged the man. "But I'll risk you, Edith. But, tell me—does she help you any, in any way? Do you think you can—keep her, for a while?"
"Keep her? Of course I shall keep her! Do you suppose I'd turn that child adrift now? Besides, she's a real help to me with the children. And I know—and she knows—that in helping me she is helping herself, and helping Dorothy Elizabeth—'Betty' she calls her now. We're getting along beautifully. We—"
There came the sound of hurried steps, then the sudden wide flinging of the door, and the appearance of a breathless young woman.
"Oh, Mrs. Thayer, they said the doctor had come, and—" Helen Denby stopped short, her abashed eyes going from one to the other of the expressivefaces before her. "Oh, I—I beg your pardon," she faltered. "I hadn't ought to have burst in like this. Ladies don't. You said yesterday that ladies never did. But I—I—doctor, you went to—to Dalton?" she appealed to the man.
"Yes, Mrs. Denby."
"And you saw—them? Burke and his father?"
"Yes."
"But, you didn't—youdidn'ttell them I was here?"
"Of course not! Didn't I promise you I wouldn't?"
Helen Denby relaxed visibly, and dropped herself into a low chair near by. The color came back to her face.
"I know; but I was so afraid they'd find out—some way."
"They didn't—from me."
She raised startled eyes to his face.
"You don't mean theydoknow where I am?"
"Oh, no. But—" The doctor stirred uneasily. "Mrs. Denby, don't you think— Won't you let me tell them where you are?"
"Do they want to know?"
"Yes. They are trying very hard to find you."
"Of course. But if they find me—what then? Does Burke—want me?"
The doctor flushed.
"Well, he—yes—that is, he—well, of course—"
"You don't have to say any more, doctor," interposed Helen Denby, smiling a little sadly.
The red deepened on the doctor's face.
"Well, of course, Burke is very angry and very bitter, just now," he explained defensively. "But if you two could be brought together—" He paused helplessly.
She shook her head.
"'Twould be the same old story—only worse. I see so many things now that I never saw before. Even if he said right now that he wanted me, I wouldn't go back. I wouldn't dare to. 'Twouldn't be a day before he'd be ashamed of me again. Maybe some time I'll learn—" She paused, her eyes wistfully fixed out the window. "But if I don't"—she turned almost frenziedly—"Betty will. Betty is going to be a lady from right now. Then some day I'll show her to him. He won't be ashamed of Betty. You see if he is!"
Again the doctor stirred uneasily.
"But, think! How can I go on from day to day and not let your husband know—"
Helen Denby sprang to her feet. The wild look of that first night of flight came into her eyes, but her voice, when she spoke, was very calm.
"Dr. Gleason," she began resolutely, "it's just as I told you before. Unless you'll promise not to tell Burke where I am, till I say the word, I shall take Betty and go—somewhere. I don't know where. But it'll be where you can't find me—any of you."
"Oh, come, come, my dear child—"
"Will you promise?"
"But just think how—"
"Iamthinking!" choked Helen. "Butyoudon't seem to be.Can'tyou see how I want to stay here? I've got a chance, maybe, to be like you and your sister, and all the rest of Burke's swell—I mean, like Burke's friends," she corrected, with a hot blush. "And, anyhow, Betty's got a chance. We've made a start. We've begun. And here you want to go and tip it all over by telling Burke. And there can't anything good happen, if Burke knows. Besides, didn't he say himself that weneededto have a vacation from each other? Now, won't you promise, please?"
With a despairing cry the doctor threw up his hands.
"Oh, good Heavens, yes! Of course I'll promise," he groaned. "I suspect you could make me promise to shave my head and dance the tango barefooted down Washington Street, if you set out to. Oh, yes, I'll promise. But I can tell you right now that I shall wake up in the dead of night and pinch myself to make sure Ihavepromised," he finished with wrathful emphasis.
Helen laughed light-heartedly. She even tossed the doctor a playful glance as she turned to go.
"All right! I don't care a mite how much you pinch yourself," she declared. "You've promised—and that's all I care for!" And she left the room with buoyant step.
"You see," observed Mrs. Thayer significantly, as the door closed behind her.
"Yes, I see—so far," nodded Dr. Frank Gleason with a sigh. "But I do wish I could see—what the end is going to be."
"It isn't given to us to see ends," responded Mrs. Thayer sententiously. "We can only attend to the beginnings and make them right."
"Humph!" grunted her brother, with some asperity. "I'm not saying I like the beginning, in this case. Honestly, to speak plainly, my dear Edith, I consider this thing one big fool business, from beginning to end."
There was a moment's pause; then very quietly Mrs. Thayer asked:—
"Can you suggest, dear, all things considered, anything else for us to do than what wearedoing?"
"No—confound it! And that's what's the matter," groaned Frank Gleason. "But that isn't saying that Iliketo play the fool."
"Well, I shouldn't worry. I'm not worrying," replied his sister, with an enigmatic smile.
"Maybe not. But I'm glad I'm going on that Arctic trip, and that it's just next month. I'd as soon not see much of the Denbys just now. Feel too much like the evil-eyed, double-dyed villain in a dime movie," growled the doctor, getting to his feet, and striding from the room.
Soon after the doctor started on his trip to the North the Thayers closed their Beacon Street home and went to their North Shore cottage. The move was made a little earlier than usual this year, a fact which pleased the children not a little and delighted Helen Denby especially.
"You see, I'm always so afraid in Boston," she explained to Mrs. Thayer, as the train pulled out of the North Station.
"Afraid?"
"That somewhere—on the street, or somewhere—I'll meet some one from Dalton, or somebody that knew—my husband."
Mrs. Thayer frowned slightly.
"Yes, I know. And there was danger, of course! But—Helen, that brings up exactly the subject that I'd been intending to speak to you about. Thus far—and advisedly, I know—we have kept you carefully in the background, my dear. But this isn't going to do forever, you know."
"Why not? I—I like it."
Mrs. Thayer smiled, but she frowned again thoughtfully.
"I know, dear; but if you are to learn this—this—" Mrs. Thayer stumbled and paused as shealways stumbled and paused when she tried to reduce to words her present extraordinary mission. "You will have to—to learn to meet people and mingle with them easily and naturally."
The earnest look of the eager student came at once to Helen Denby's face.
"You mean, I'll have to meet and mingle with swell people if I, too, am— Oh, that horrid word again! Mrs. Thayer,whycan't I learn to stop using it? But you mean— I know what you mean. You mean I'll have to meet and mingle with—with ladies and gentlemen if I'm to be one myself. Isn't that it?"
"Y-yes, of course; only—the very words 'lady' and 'gentleman' have been so abused that we—we—Oh, Helen, Helen, you do put things so baldly, and it sounds so—so— Don't you see, dear? It's all just as I've told you lots of times. The minute you begin to talk about it, you lose it. It's something that comes to you by absorption and intuition."
"But there are things I have to learn, Mrs. Thayer,—real things, like holding your fork, and clothes, and finger nails, and not speaking so loud, and not talking about 'folks' being 'swell' and 'tony,' and—"
"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. Thayer, with a touch of desperation. "But, after all, it's all so—so impossible! And—" She stopped abruptly at the look of terrified dismay that always leaped to Helen Denby's eyes in response to such a word. "No, no, I don't mean that. But, really, Helen,"she went on hurriedly, "the time has come when you must be seen more. And it will be quite safe at the shore, I am sure. You'll meet no one who ever saw you in Dalton; that is certain."
"Then, of course, if you say I'll have to—I'll have to. That's all."
"I do say it."
"My, but I dread it!" Helen drew in her breath and bit her lip.
"All the more reason why you should do it then," smiled Mrs. Thayer briskly. "You're to learnnotto dread it. See? And it'll be easier than you think. There are some very pleasant people coming down. The Gillespies, Mrs. Reynolds and her little Gladys,—about Betty's age, by the way,—and next month there'll be the Drew girls and Mr. Donald Estey and his brother John. Later there will be others—the Chandlers, and Mr. Eric Shaw. And I'm going to begin immediately to have them see you, and have you see them."
"They'll know me as 'Mrs. Darling'?"
"Of course—a friend of mine."
"But I want to—to help in some way."
"You do help. You help with the children—your companionship."
"But that's the way I've learned—so many things, Mrs. Thayer."
"Of course. And that's the way you'll learn—many other things. But there are others—still others—that you can learn in no way as well as byassociation with the sort of well-bred men and women you will meet this summer. I don't mean that you arealwaysto be with them, my dear; but I do mean that you must be with them enough so that it is a matter of supreme indifference to you whether you are with them or not. Do you understand? You must learn to be at ease with—anybody. See?"
Helen sighed and nodded her head slowly.
"Yes, I think I do, Mrs. Thayer; and I will try—so hard!" She hesitated, then asked abruptly, "Who is Mr. Donald Estey, please?"
There was an odd something in Mrs. Thayer's laugh as she answered.
"And why, pray, do you single him out?"
"Because of something—different in your voice, when you said his name."
Mrs. Thayer laughed again.
"That's more cleverly put than you know, child," she shrugged. "I never thought of it before, but I fancy we all do say Mr. Donald Estey's name—with a difference."
"Is he so very important, then?"
"In his own estimation—yes! There! I was wrong to say that, Helen, and you must forget it. Mr. Donald Estey is a very wealthy, very capable, very delightful and brilliant young bachelor. He is a little spoiled, perhaps; but that's our fault and not his, I suspect, for he's petted and made of enough to turn any man's head. He's very entertaining. He knows something about everything. He can talkEgyptian scarabs with my brother, and Irish crochet with me, and then turn around and discuss politics with my husband, and quote poetry to Phillis Drew in the next breath. All this, of course, makes him a very popular man."
"But he's a—a real gentleman, the kind that my husband would like?"
"Why, of—of course!" Mrs. Thayer frowned slightly; then, suddenly, she laughed. "To tell the truth he's very like your husband, in some ways, I've heard my brother say—tastes, temperament, and so forth."
An odd something leaped to Helen Denby's eyes.
"You mean, whathelikes, Burke likes?" she questioned.
"Why, y-yes; you might put it that way, I suppose. But never mind. You'll see for yourself when you see him."
"Yes, I'll see—when I see him." Helen Denby nodded and relaxed in her seat. The odd something was still smouldering in her eyes.
"Then it's all settled, remember," smiled Mrs. Thayer. "You're not to run and hide now when somebody comes. You're to learn to meet people. That's your next lesson."
"My next lesson—my next lesson," repeated Helen Denby, half under her breath. "Oh, I hope I'll learn so much—in this next lesson! I won't run and hide now, indeed, I won't, Mrs. Thayer!"
And at the glorified earnestness of her face, Mrs.Thayer, watching, felt suddenly her own throat tighten convulsively.
In spite of her valiant promise, Helen Denby, a week later, did almost run and hide when the Gillespies, the first of Mrs. Thayer's guests, arrived. Held, however, by a stern something within her, she bravely stood her ground and forced herself to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gillespie and their daughters, Miss Alice and Miss Maud. It was not so difficult the next week when Mrs. Reynolds came, perhaps because of the pretty little Gladys, so near her own Betty's age.
Fully alive to her own shortcomings, however, embarrassed, and distrustful of herself, Helen was careful never to push herself forward, never to take the initiative. And because she was so quiet and unobtrusive, her intense watchfulness, and slavish imitation of what she saw, passed unnoticed. Gradually, as the days came and went, the tenseness of her concentration relaxed, and she began to move and speak with less studied caution. It was at this juncture that Mr. Donald Estey arrived. Instantly into her bearing sprang an entirely new, alert eagerness. But this, too, passed unnoticed, for the change was not in herself alone. The entire household had made instant response to the presence of Mr. Donald Estey. The men sharpened their wits, and the women freshened their furbelows. Breakfast was served on the minute with never a vacant chair; and even the steps of the maids in the kitchen quickened.
Because Mr. Donald Estey was always surrounded by an admiring group, the fact that "that quiet little Mrs. Darling" was almost invariably one of the group did not attract attention. It was Mr. Donald Estey himself, in fact, who first noticed it; and the reason that he noticed it was because once, when she was not there, he found himself looking for her eager face. He realized then that for some time he had been in the habit of finding his chief inspiration in a certain pair of wondrously beautiful blue eyes bent full upon himself.
Not that the encountering of admiring feminine eyes bent full upon him was a new experience to Mr. Donald Estey; but that these eyes were different. There was something strangely fascinating and compelling in their earnest gaze. It was on the day that he first missed them that he suddenly decided to cultivate their owner.
He began by asking casual questions of his fellow guests, but he could find out very little concerning the lady. She was a Mrs. Darling, a friend of their hostess (which he knew already). She was a widow, they believed, though they had never heard her husband mentioned. She was pleasant enough—but so shy and retiring! Charming face she had, though, and beautiful eyes. But did he not think she was—well, a little peculiar?
Mr. Donald Estey did not answer this, directly. He became, indeed, always very evasive when his fellow guests turned about and began to questionhim. Very soon, too, he ceased his own questioning. But that he had not lost his interest in Mrs. Darling was most unmistakably shown at once, for openly and systematically he began to seek her society—to the varying opinions (but unvarying interest) of the rest of the house party.
If Mr. Donald Estey had expected Mrs. Darling to be shy and coy at his advances, he found himself entirely mistaken. She welcomed him with a frank delight that was most flattering, at the same time most puzzling, owing to a certain elusive quality that he could not name.
Mr. Donald Estey thought that he knew women well. It pleased his fancy to think that he had his feminine friends nicely pigeonholed and labeled, and that he had but to pass an hour or two of intimate talk with any woman to be able at once to ticket her accurately. His first hour of intimate talk with Mrs. Darling, however, left him confused and baffled—but mightily interested: in the course of that one hour he had shelved her in almost every one of his pigeonholes, only to find at the end of it that she was still free and uncatalogued.
She was a flirt; she was not a flirt. She was sincere; she was hypocritical. She was brilliantly subtle; she was incredibly stupid. She was charming; she was commonplace. She was as clear as crystal; she was as inscrutable as a sphinx—and she was all these things in that one short first hour. At the end of it, Mr. Donald Estey, with a long breath and a frown,but with a quickened pulse, decided that he would have another hour with her as soon as possible.
He had no difficulty in obtaining it. Mrs. Darling, indeed, seemed quite as desirous of his society as he was of hers; yet there was still the elusive something in her manner that robbed it of all offensive eagerness. Again to-day, after the hour's intimate talk, Estey found himself confused and baffled, with the lady still outside his pigeonholes. Nor did he find the situation changed the next day, or the next. Then suddenly he awoke to a new element in the case—the extraordinary deference that was being paid his lightest wish or preference on the part of Mrs. Darling.
At first, doubting the accuracy of his suspicions, he systematically put her to the test, choosing purposely the most obvious and unmistakable.
Blue was his favorite color, he said: she appeared in blue the next day. Browning was his best-loved poet, he declared: in less than an hour he found her poring over "Pippa Passes" in the library. A woman who could talk, and talk well, on current events won his sincere admiration every time, he told her: he wondered the next morning how late she must have sat up the night before, studying the merits and demerits of the four presidential candidates.
Mr. Donald Estey was flattered, amused, and curiously interested. Not that what looked to be a determined assault upon his heart was exactly a new experience for him; but that the circumstances in thiscase were so out of the ordinary, and that he was still trying to "place" this young woman. He was not sure even, always, that she was trying to make a bid for his affections. He was not sure, either, of his own mind regarding her. In spite of his interest, he was conscious, sometimes, of a distinct feeling of aversion toward her. She was not always, to his mind, quite—the lady, though she was improving in that respect. (Even in his thoughts the word gave him a shock: he could hardly imagine a candidate for the position of Mrs. Donald Estey in need of—improvement!) But she was beautiful, and there was something wonderfully alluring in her eager way of listening to his every word. She was, indeed, not a little refreshing after the languid conservatism of some of the sophisticated young women one usually found at these country houses. Besides, was she, after all, really in love with him? Very likely she was not. At all events, it could do no harm—this mild flirtation—if flirtation it were! He would not worry about it. Plenty of time yet to—to withdraw. He had but to receive (apparently) a summoning message, and he could go at once. That would, of course, end the affair. Meanwhile— But just exactly what type of woman was she, anyway?
Still amused, interested, and contentedly secure, therefore, Mr. Donald Estey pursued for another week his pleasant pastime of finding just the proper pigeonhole for this tantalizing will-o'-the-wisp of femininity; then, sharply, he received a jolt thatleft him figuratively—almost literally—breathless and gasping.
They were talking of marriage.
"But you yourself have never married," she said.
"No, I have never married."
"I wonder why."
Mr. Donald Estey frowned and stirred restlessly—there were times when Mrs. Darling's unconventionality was not "refreshing."
"Perhaps—the right girl has never found me," he shrugged.
"Oh, Mr. Estey, please, what sort of a girl would be the right one—for you?"
"Well, really—er—" He stopped and stirred again uneasily—there was an almost frenzied earnestness in her face and manner that was somewhat disconcerting.
"That might be hard telling," he evaded banteringly.
"But youcouldtell me, Mr. Estey. I know you could. And, oh, won't you, please?"
"Why, er—Mrs. Darling!" He gave an embarrassed laugh as he sought for just the right word to say. "You seem—er—extraordinarily interested." He laughed again—to hide the fact that he knew that he had said just thewrongthing.
"I am interested. Indeed, Mr. Estey, it would mean—you cannot know what it would mean—if you'd tell me."
"Why—er—really—"
"Yes, yes, I know. I hadn't ought to talk like this. Ladies don't. I can see it in your face. But it's because I want toknowso—because I must know. Please, won't you tell me?"
With a quick lifting of his head Mr. Donald Estey pulled himself sharply together. Flattering as it was to be thus deferred to, this flirtation—if flirtation it were—had gone quite far enough. He laughed again lightly and sprang to his feet.
"Couldn't think of it, Mrs. Darling. Really, I couldn't, you know!"
"Mr. Estey!" She, too, was on her feet. She had laid a persuasive hand on his arm. "Please, you think I'm joking; but I'm not. I really mean it. If you only would do it—it would mean so much to me! And don't—don't look at me like that. IknowI'm not being proper, and I know ladies don't do so—what I'm doing. But when I saw it—such a splendid chance to ask you, I—I just had to do it."
"But—but—" The startled, nonplussed man stuttered like a bashful schoolboy; "it really is so—so absurd, Mrs. Darling, when you—er—stop to think of it."
She sighed despairingly, but she did not take her hand from his arm.
"Then, if"—she spoke hurriedly, and with evident embarrassment—"if you won't tell me that way, won't you please tell me another? Could you—would you— Am Ianylike that girl, Mr. Estey?"
Mr. Donald Estey was guilty of an actual gasp ofdismay. In a whirl of vexation at the situation in which he found himself, he groped blindly for a safe way out. Of course young women (young women such as he knew) did not really propose to one; but was it possible that that was exactly what this somewhat remarkable young widow was doing? It seemed incredible. And yet—
"Am I, Mr. Estey? Or do you think I could—learn?"
"Why, er—er—"
"I mean, would you—could you marry—me?"
Every vestige of self-control slipped from the tortured man like a garment. Conscious only of an insane desire to flee from this wretched woman who was about to march him to the altar willy-nilly, he quite jerked his arm free.
"Well, really, Mrs. Darling, I—I—"
"You wouldn't, I can see you wouldn't!" There was a heartbroken little sob in her voice.
"But—but, Mrs. Darling! Oh, hang it all! What a perfectly preposterous situation!" he stormed wrathfully. "I don't want—to marry anybody. I tell you I'm not a marrying man! I—" He stopped short at the astounding change that had come to the little woman opposite.
She was staring into his face with a growing terror that suddenly, at its height, broke into a gale of hysterical laughter. She covered her face with her hands and dropped into the chair behind her.
"Oh, oh, you didn't—you didn't—but youdid!" she choked, swaying her body back and forth. The next moment she was on her feet, facing him, a new something in her eyes. The laughter was quite gone. "You needn't worry, Mr. Donald Estey." She spoke hurriedly, and with all the wildabandonof her old self. "I wasn't asking you to marry me—so you don't have to refuse." Her voice quivered with hurt pride.
"Why, of course not, of course not, my dear lady!" He caught at the straw. "I never thought—"
"Yes, you did; and you was floundering around trying to find a way to say no. I wasn't good enough for you. And that's just what I was trying to find out, too,—but it hurt, just the same, when I did find out!"
"Oh, but, Mrs. Darling, I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did. I saw it in your eyes, and in the way you drew back. Only I—I didn't meanyou. I never thought of your taking it that way—that I wanted to marryyou. It was some one else that I meant."
"Some oneelse?" The stupefaction in the man's face deepened.
"Yes. You don't know him. But they said you was—were, I mean, like him; that whatyouliked, he would like. See? And that's why I tried to find out what—what you did like, so I could learn to be what would please him."
The petted idol of unnumbered drawing-rooms blinked his eyes.
"You mean you were usingmeas an—er—understudy?" he demanded.
"Yes—no—I don't know. I was just trying to walk and talk and breathe and move the way you wanted me to, so I could do it by and by for—him."
Mr. Donald Estey drew in his breath.
"Well, by—Jove!"
"And I'm going to." She lifted her chin determinedly. "I'm going to!And now you know—why I asked you what I did. I was hoping I—I had gained a little in all these weeks. I've been trying so hard. And before you came, when Mrs. Thayer told me you were like—like the man I love, I determined then to watch you and study you, and do everything the way you liked, if I could find out what it was. And now to have you think I wasaskingyou to—to— As if I'd ever marry—you!" she choked. The next moment, with a wild fling of her arms, she was gone.
Alone, Mr. Donald Estey drew a long breath. As he turned, he faced his own image in the mirror across the room. Slowly he advanced toward it. There was a quizzical smile in his eyes.
"Donald, me boy," he apostrophized, "you have been rejected. Do you hear?Rejected!Jove! But what an extraordinary young woman!" His eyes left the mirror and sought the door by which she had gone.
Mr. Donald Estey did not see Mrs. Darling again during his stay. A sudden indisposition prevented her from being among the guests for some days.
Dr. Gleason's Arctic trip, designed to cover a year of research and discovery, prolonged itself into three years and two months. Shipwrecks, thrilling escapes, months of silence, and a period when hope for the safety of the party was quite gone, all figured in the story before the heroic rescue brought a happier ending to what had come so near to being another tragedy of the ice-bound North.
It was June when Frank Gleason, in the care of a nurse and a physician, arrived at his sister's summer cottage by the sea.
For a month after his coming Frank Gleason was too ill to ask many questions. But with returning strength came an insistence upon an answer to a query he had already several times put to his sister.
"Edith, what of the Denbys? Where is Helen? Why do you always evade any questions about her?"
"She is here with me."
"Here—still?"
"Yes. And she's a great comfort and help to me."
"And Burke doesn't know yet where she is?"
"Not that we know of."
"Impossible—all this time!"
"Oh, I don't know. All our friends know her as 'Mrs. Darling.' The Denbys never come here, andthey'd never think of looking here for her, anyway. We figured that out long ago."
"But it can't go on forever! When is she going back?"
An odd look crossed Mrs. Thayer's face.
"I don't know, Frank; but not for some time—if ever—I should judge, from present indications."
"'If ever'! Good Heavens, Edith, what do you mean?" demanded the doctor, pulling himself up in his chair. "Iknewno good would come of this tom-foolishness!"
"There, there, dear, never mind all this now," begged his sister. "Please don't try to talk about it any more."
"But I will talk about it, Edith. I want to know—and you might just as well tell me in the first place, and not hang back and hesitate," protested the doctor, with all the irritability of a naturally strong man who finds himself so unaccountably weak in his convalescence. "What's the trouble? Hasn't that—er—fool-improvement business worked out? Well, I didn't think it would!"
Edith Thayer laughed softly.
"On the contrary, it's working beautifully. Wait till you see her. She's a dear—a very charming woman. She's developed wonderfully. But along with it all has come to her a very deep and genuine, and rather curious, humility, together with a pride, the chief aim of which is to avoid anything like theposition in which she found herself as the mortifying, distress-causing wife of Burke Denby."
"Humph!" commented the doctor.
"That Burke doesn't love her, she is thoroughly convinced. To go to him now, tacitly asking to be taken back, she feels to be impossible. She has no notion of going where she isn't wanted; and she feels very sure sheisn'twanted by either Burke or his father. Of course the longer it runs, and the longer she stays away, the harder it seems for her to make herself known."
"Oh, but thiscan'tgo on forever," protested Frank Gleason again, restlessly. "I'll see Burke. As soon as I'm on my feet again I shall run up there."
"But you've given your promise not to tell, remember."
"Yes, yes, I know. I shan't tell, of course. But I can bring back something, I'm sure, that will—will cause this stubborn young woman to change her mind."
"I doubt it. Helen says she's not ready to go back yet, anyway."
"Not sufficiently 'improved,' I suppose," laughed the doctor, a little grimly.
"Perhaps. Then, too, she has other plans all made."
"Oh, she has!"
"Yes. She's going abroad. Do you remember Angie Reynolds?—Angie Ried, you know—married Ned Reynolds."
"Yes. Nice girl!"
"Well, they're going abroad for some years—some business for the firm, I believe. Anyway, Ned will have to be months at a time in different cities, and Angie and little Gladys are going with him. They have asked Helen and Betty to go, too; and Helen has agreed to go."
"And leave you?"
At the indignant expression on her brother's face, Edith Thayer laughed merrily.
"But, my dear Frank, I thought you were just threatening togetHelen to leave me!" she challenged.
"So I was," retorted the doctor, nothing daunted. "But it was to get her to go home, where she belonged; not on any wild-goose chase like this abroad business. What does she want?—to be presented at court? Maybe she thinks that's going to do the job!"
"Oh, come, come, Frank, now you're sarcastic!" Mrs. Thayer's voice was earnest, though her eyes were twinkling. "It isn't a wild-goose chase a bit. It's a very sensible plan. In the first place, it takes Helen out of the country—which is wise, if she's still going to try to keep her whereabouts a secret from Burke; for eventually some one, somewhere, would see her—some one who knew her face. She can't always live so secluded a life as she has these past three years, of course,—we have spent the greater share of that time at the beach here, coming early and staying late.
"But that isn't all. Angie has taken a great fancy to both Helen and Dorothy Elizabeth, and she likesto have Gladys with them. The children are the same age—about five, you know—and great cronies. Angie is taking Helen as a sort of companion-governess. Her duties will be light and congenial. Both the children will be in her charge, and their treatment and advantages will be identical. There will be a nursery governess under her, and she herself will be much with Angie, which will be invaluable to her, in many ways. And, by the way, Frank, the fact that a woman like Angie Reynolds is taking her for a traveling companion shows, more conclusively than anything else could, how greatly improved Helen is—what a really charming woman she has come to be. But it is a splendid chance for her, certainly, and especially for Betty—her whole life centers now in Betty—and I urged her taking it. At first she demurred, on account of leaving me; but I succeeded in convincing her that it was altogether too good an opportunity to lose."
"Opportunity, indeed! When does she go?"
"The last of next month."
"Oh, that's all right, then. I shall see Burke long before that." The doctor settled back in his chair with a relieved sigh.
His sister eyed him with a disturbed frown.
"Frank, dear, you can't do anything," she ventured at last. "Didn't I tell you she wasn't ready to go back?"
"But she'll have to go—some time."
"Perhaps. But wait. I'm not going to say anotherword now, nor let you. Wait till you see her—and you shall see her in a day or two—just as soon as you are strong enough. But not another word now." And to make sure that he obeyed, Mrs. Thayer rose laughingly and left the room.
It was four days later that Frank Gleason for the first time ventured downstairs and out into the warm sunshine on the south veranda. Hearing a child's gleeful laugh and a woman's gently remonstrative voice,—a voice that he thought he recognized,—he walked the length of the veranda and rounded the corner.
His slippered feet made no sound, so quite unheralded he came upon the woman and the little girl on the wide veranda steps. Neither one saw him, and he stopped short at the corner, his eyes alight with sudden admiration.
Frank Gleason thought he had never seen a more lovely little girl. Blue-eyed, golden-haired, and rosy-cheeked, she was the typical child-beautiful of picture and romance. A-tiptoe on the topmost step she was reaching one dimpled hand for a gorgeous red geranium blooming in a pot decorating the balustrade. In the other hand, tightly clutched, was another gorgeous blossom, sadly crushed and broken. She was laughing gleefully. Near her, but not attempting to touch her, was a woman the doctor recognized at once. It was Helen—but Helen with a subtle difference of face, eyes, hair, dress, and manner that was at once illuminating but baffling.
"Betty, dear," she was saying gently, "no, no! Mother said not to pick the flowers."
The child turned roguish, willful eyes.
"But I wants to pick 'em."
"Mother can't let you, dear. And see, they are so much prettier growing!"
The small red lips pouted. The little curly head gave a vigorous shake.
"But I wants 'em to grow in my hands—so," insisted a threateningly tearful voice, as the tightly clutched flower was thrust forward for inspection.
"But they won't grow there, darling. See!—this one is all crumpled and broken now. It can't even lift its poor little head. Come, we don't want the rest to be like that, do we? Come! Come away with me."
The young eyes grew mutinous.
"I wants 'em to grow in my hand," insisted the red lips again.
"But mother doesn't." There was a resolute note of decision in the quiet voice now; but suddenly it grew wonderfully soft and vibrant. "And daddy wouldn't, either, dearie. Only think how sorry daddy would be to see that poor little flower in Betty's hand!"
As if in response to a potent something in her mother's voice, Betty's eyes grew roundly serious.
"Why—would daddy—be sorry?"
"Because daddy loves all beautiful things, and he wants them to stay beautiful. And this poor little flower in Betty's hand won't be beautiful muchlonger, I fear. It is all broken and crushed; and daddy—"
With a sudden sense of guilt, as if trespassing on holy ground, the doctor strode forward noisily.
"So this is Dorothy Elizabeth and her mother—" he began gayly; but he could get no further.
Helen Denby turned with a joyous cry and an eagerly extended hand.
"Oh, Dr. Gleason, I'm so glad! Youarebetter, aren't you? I'm so glad to see you!"
"Yes, I'm better. I'm well—only I can't seem to make people believe it. And you— I don't need to ask how you are. And so this big girl is the little Dorothy Elizabeth I used to know. You have your mother's eyes, my dear. Come, won't you shake hands with me?"
The little girl advanced slowly, her gaze searching the doctor's face. Then, in her sweet, high-pitched treble, came the somewhat disconcerting question:—
"Is you—daddy?"
The doctor laughed lightly.
"No, my dear. I'm a poor unfortunate man who hasn't any little girl like you; but we'll hope, one of these days, you'll see—daddy." He turned to Helen Denby with suddenly grave, questioning eyes.
"Betty, dear,"—Mrs. Denby refused to meet the doctor's gaze,—"go carry the flower to Annie and ask her please to put it in water for you; then run out and play with Bessie in the garden. Mother wants to talk to Dr. Gleason a few minutes." Then,to the doctor, she turned an agitated face. "Surely, didn't your sister—tell you? I'm going to London with Mrs. Reynolds."
"Yes, she told me. But perhaps I was hoping to persuade you—to do otherwise."
Her eyes grew troubled.
"But it's such a fine chance—"
"For more of this 'improvement' business, I suppose," cut in the doctor, a bit brusquely.
She turned reproachful eyes upon him.
"Oh, please, doctor, don't make fun of me like—"
"As if I'd make fun of you, child!" cut in the doctor, still more sharply.
"Oh, but I can't blame you, of course," she smiled wistfully; "and especially now that I see myself how absurd I was to think, for a minute, that I could make myself over into a—a—the sort of wife that Burke Denby would wish to have."
"Absurd that you could— Come, come!Nowwhat nonsense are you talking?" snapped the doctor.
"But it isn't nonsense," objected Helen Denby earnestly. "Don't you suppose I knownow? I used to think it was something you could learn as you would a poem, or that you could put on to you, as you would a new dress. But I know now it's something inside of you that has to grow and grow just as you grow; and I'm afraid all the putting on and learning in the world won't getmethere."
"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Denby!" expostulated the doctor, in obvious consternation.
"But it's so. Listen," she urged tremulously. "Now I—I just can't like the kind of music Burke does,—discords, and no tune, you know,—though I've tried and tried to. Day after day I've gone into the music-room and put in those records,—the classics and the operatic ones that are the real thing, you know,—but I can't like them; and I still keep liking tunes and ragtime. And there are the books, too. I can't help liking jingles and stories thattellsomething; and I don't like poetry—not real poetry like Browning and all the rest of them."
"Browning, indeed! As if that counted, child!"
"Oh, but it's other things—lots of them; vague, elusive things that I can't put my finger on. But I know them now, since I've been here with your sister and her friends. Why, sometimes it isn't anything more than the way a woman speaks, or the way she sits down and gets up, or even the way a bit of lace falls over her hand. But they all help. And they've helped me, too,—oh, so much. I'm so glad now of this chance to thank you. You don't know—you can't know, what it's been for me—to be here."
"But I thought you just said that you—youcouldn't—that is, that you'd—er—given up," floundered the doctor miserably, as if groping for some sort of support on a topsy-turvy world.
"Given up? Perhaps I have—in a way—for myself. You see, I know now that you have to begin young. That's why I'm so happy about Betty. I don't mind about myself any more, if only I canmake it all right for her. Dr. Gleason, I couldn't—I justcouldn'thave her father ashamed of—Betty!"
"Ashamed of that child! Well, I should say not," blustered the doctor incoherently; "nor of you, either, you brave little woman. Why—"
"Bettyisa dear, isn't she?" interrupted the mother eagerly. "Youdothink she'll—she'll be everything he could wish? I'm keeping him always before her—what he likes, how he'd want her to do, you know. And almost always I can make her mind now, with daddy's name, and—"
The doctor interrupted with a gesture of impatience.
"My dear lady, can't you see that now—rightnowis just the time for you to go back to your husband?"
The eager, pleading, wistful-eyed little mother opposite became suddenly the dignified, stern-eyed woman.
"Has he said he wanted me, Dr. Gleason?"
"Why—er—y-yes; well, that is, he— I know he has wanted to know where you were."
"Very likely; but that isn't wantingme. Dr. Gleason, don't you think I have any pride, any self-respect, even? My husband was ashamed of me. He asked me to go away for a time. He wrote me with his own hand that he wanted a vacation from me. Do you thinknow, without a sign or a word from him, that I am going creeping back to him and ask him to take me back?"
"But he doesn't know where you are, togiveyou a sign," argued the doctor.
"You've seen him, haven't you?"
"Why, y-yes—but not lately. But—I'm going to."
A startled look came into her eyes. The next minute she smiled sadly.
"Are you? Very well; we'll see—if he says anything. You won't tell him where I am, I know. I have your promise. But, Dr. Gleason,"—her voice grew very sweet and serious,—"I shall not be satisfied now with anything short of a happy married life. I know now what marriage is, where there is love, and trust in each other, and where they like to do and talk about the same things. I've seen your sister and her husband. Unless I canknowthat I'm going to bring that kind of happiness to Burke, I shall not consent to go back to him. I will give him his daughter. Some time, when she is old enough, I want him to see her. When I know that he is proud of my Betty, I may not—mind the rest so much, perhaps. But now—now—" With a choking little cry she turned and fled down the steps and out on to the garden path.
Baffled, irritated, yet frowningly admiring, the doctor stalked into the house.
In the hall he came face to face with his sister. She fluttered into instant anxiety.
"Why, Frank—outdoors? Who said you could do that?"
"I did. Oh, the doctor said so, too," he flung out hurriedly, answering the dawning disapproval in her eyes. "I'm going to Dalton next week."
"Oh, but, Frank—"
"Now, please don't argue. I'm going. If you and the doctor can get me well enough to go—all right. But I'm going whether I'm well enough or not."
"But, Frank, dear, you can'tdoanything. You know you promised."
"Oh, I shan't break any promises, of course. But I'm going to see Burke. I'm going to find out if he really is ninny enough to keep on holding off, at the end of a silly quarrel, the sweetest little wife a man ever had, and—"
"I opine you've seen Helen," smiled Edith Thayer, with a sudden twinkle.
"I have, and—doesn't like Browning, indeed! And can't help liking tunes! Oh, good Heavens, Edith, if Burke Denby doesn't— Well, we'll see next week," he glowered, striding away, followed by the anxious but still twinkling eyes of his sister.
In accordance with his threat, and in spite of protests, the doctor went to Dalton the next week. But almost by return train he was back again, stern-lipped and somber-eyed.
"Why, Frank, so soon as this?" cried his sister. "Surely Burke Denby didn't—"
"I didn't see him."
"His father, then?"
"Neither one. They're gone. South America. Bridge contract. Went themselves this time."
"Oh, that explains it—why we haven't heard from them since you came back. Ihadthought it strange, Frank, that not a word of congratulation or even inquiry had come from them."
"Yes, I know. I—I'd thought it strange myself—a little. But that doesn't help this thing any. I can't very well go to South America to see Burke, just now—though I'd like to."
"Of course not. Besides, don't forget that you very likely wouldn't accomplish anything if you did see him."
So deep was the sudden gloom on the doctor's face at her words that the lady added quickly: "You did find out something in Dalton, Frank! I know you did by your face. You saw some one."
"Oh, I saw—Brett."
"Who's he?"
"Denby's general manager and chief factotum."
"Well, he ought to know—something."
"He does—everything. But he won't tell—anything."
"Oh!"
"And it's right that he shouldn't, of course. It's his business to keep his mouth shut—and he knows his business as well as any man I can think of. Oh, he was perfectly civil, and apparently very gracious and open-hearted in what he said."
"Whatdidhe say?"
"He said that they had gone to South America on a big bridge contract, and that they wouldn't be home for four or five months yet. He said that they were very well, and that, probably, when they came back from this trip, they would go to South Africa for another six months. I couldn't get anywhere near asking about Helen, and Burke's present state of mind concerning her. He could scent a question of that sort forty words away; and he invariably veered off at a tangent long before I got to it. It was like starting for New York and landing in Montreal! I had to give it up. So far as anything I could learn to the contrary, Mr. Burke Denby and his father are well, happy, and perfectly content to build bridges for heathens and Hottentots the rest of their natural existence. And there you are! How, pray, in the face of that, are we going to keep Helen from running off to London?"
"I shouldn't try."
"But—oh, hang it all, Edith! This can't go on."
"Oh, yes, it can, my dear; and I'm inclined to think it's going on just right. Very plainly they aren't ready for each other—yet. Let her go to London and make the best of all these advantages for herself and Betty; and let him go on with his bridge-building for the Hottentots. 'Twill do them good—both of them, and will be all the better for them when they do come together."
"Oh, then theyareto come together some time!"
"Why, Frank, of course they are! You couldn'tkeep them apart," declared the lady, with smiling confidence.
"But, Edith, you haven't ever talked like this—before," puzzled the doctor, frowning.
"I've never known before that Burke Denby was building bridges for the Hottentots."
"Nonsense! That's their business. They've always built bridges."
"Yes, but Master Burke and his father haven't always gone to superintend their construction," she flashed. "In other words, if Burke Denby is trying so strenuously to get away from himself, it's a pretty sure sign that there's something in himself that he wants to get away from! You see?"
"Well, I should like to see," sighed the doctor, with very evident doubt.
In September Helen Denby and Dorothy Elizabeth went to London. With their going, a measure of peace came to Frank Gleason. Not having their constant presence to remind him of his friend's domestic complications, he could the more easily adopt his sister's complacent attitude of cheery confidence that it would all come out right in time—that itmustcome out right. Furthermore, with Helen not under his own roof, he was not so guiltily conscious of "aiding and abetting" a friend's runaway wife.
Soon after Helen's departure for London, a letter from Burke Denby in far-away South America told of the Denbys' rejoicing at the happy outcome of the Arctic trip, and expressed the hope that the doctor was well, and that they might meet him as soon as possible after their return from South America in December.
The letter was friendly and cordial, but not long. It told little of their work, and nothing of themselves. And, in spite of its verbal cordiality, the doctor felt, at its conclusion, that he had, as it were, been attending a formal reception when he had hoped for a cozy chat by the fire.
In December, at Burke's bidding, he ran up to Dalton for a brief visit, but it proved to be as stiff andunsatisfying as the letter had been. Burke never mentioned his wife; but he wore so unmistakable an "Of-course-I-understand-you-are-angry-with-me" air, that the doctor (much to his subsequent vexation when he realized it) went out of his way to be heartily cordial, as if in refutation of the disapproval idea—which was not the impression the doctor really wished to convey at all. He was, in fact, very angry with Burke. He wanted nothing so much as to give him a piece of his mind. Yet, so potent was Burke's dignified aloofness that he found himself chattering of Inca antiquities and Babylonian tablets instead of delivering his planned dissertation on the futility of quarrels in general and of Burke's and Helen's in particular.
With John Denby he had little better success, so far as results were concerned; though he did succeed in asking a few questions.
"You have never heard from—Mrs. Denby?" he began abruptly, the minute he found himself alone with Burke's father.
"Never."
"But you—you would like to!"
The old man's face became suddenly mask-like—a phenomenon with which John Denby's business associates were very familiar, but which Dr. Frank Gleason had never happened to witness before.
"If you will pardon me, doctor," began John Denby in a colorless voice, "I would rather not discuss the lady. There isn't anything new that I cansay, and I am beginning to feel—as does my son—that I would rather not hear her name mentioned."
This ended it, of course. There was nothing the doctor could say or do. Bound by his promise to Helen Denby, he could not tell the facts; and silenced by his host's words and manner, he could not discuss potentialities. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to drop the subject. And he dropped it. He went home the next day. Resolutely then he busied himself with his own affairs. Determinedly he set himself to forget the affairs of the Denbys. This was the more easily accomplished because of the long silences and absences of the Denby men themselves, and because Helen Denby still remained abroad with Angie Reynolds.
In London Helen Denby was living in a new world. Quick to realize the advantages that were now hers, she determined to make the most of them—especially for Betty. Always everything now centered around Betty.
In Mrs. Reynolds Helen had found a warm friend and sympathetic ally, one who, she knew, would keep quite to herself the story Helen had told her. Even Mr. Reynolds was not let into the inner secret of Helen's presence with them. To him she was a companion governess, a friend of the Thayers', to whom his wife had taken a great fancy—a most charming little woman, indeed, whom he himself liked very much.
Freed from the fear of meeting Burke Denby or any of his friends, Helen, for the first time since her flight from Dalton, felt that she was really safe, and that she could, with an undivided mind, devote her entire attention to her self-imposed task.
From London to Berlin, and from Berlin to Genoa, she went happily, as Mr. Reynolds's business called him. To Helen it made little difference where she was, so long as she could force every picture, statue, mountain, concert, book, or individual to pay toll to her insatiable hunger "to know"—that she might tell Betty.
Mrs. Reynolds, almost as eager and interested as Helen herself, conducted their daily lives with an eye always alert as to what would be best for Helen and Betty. Teachers for Gladys and Betty—were teachers for Helen, too; and carefully Mrs. Reynolds made it a point that her own social friends should also be Helen's—which Helen accepted with unruffled cheerfulness. Helen, indeed, had now almost reached the goal long ago set for her by Mrs. Thayer: it was very nearly a matter of supreme indifference to her whether she met people or not, so far as the idea of meeting them was concerned. There came a day, however, when, for a moment, Helen almost yielded to her old run-and-hide temptation.
They were back in London, and it was near the close of Helen's third year abroad.
"I met Mr. Donald Estey this morning," said Mrs. Reynolds at the luncheon table that noon. "I askedhim to dine with us to-morrow night. He is here for the winter."
"So? Good! I shall be glad to see Estey," commented her husband.
Once Helen would have given a cry, dropped her fork with a clatter, or otherwise made her startled perturbation conspicuous to all. That only an almost imperceptible movement and a slight change of color resulted now showed something of what Helen Denby had learned during the last few years.
"You say Mr. Donald Estey will be—here, to-morrow?" she asked quietly.
"Yes. You remember him," nodded Mrs. Reynolds. "He was at the Thayers' at the same time I was there six years ago—tall, good-looking fellow with glasses."
"Yes, I remember," smiled Helen. And never would one have imagined that behind the quiet words was a wild clamor of "Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do—whatshallI do?"
What Helen Denby wanted to do was to run away—far away, where Mr. Donald Estey could never find her. Next best would be to tell Mrs. Reynolds that she could not see him; but to do that, she would have to tell why—and she did not want to tell even Mrs. Reynolds the story of that awful hour at the Thayers' North Shore cottage. True, she might feign illness and plead a headache; but Mrs. Reynolds had said that Mr. Estey was to be in London all winter—and she could not very well have a headacheall winter! There was plainly no way but to meet this thing fairly and squarely. Besides, had not Mrs. Thayer said long ago that emergencies were the greatest test of manners, as well as of ropes and housewives, and that she must always be ready for emergencies? Was she to fail now at this, her first real test?
Mr. Donald Estey was already in the drawing-room when Helen Denby came down to dinner the following evening. She had put on a simple white dress—after a horrified rejection of a blue one, her first choice. (She had remembered just in time that Mr. Donald Estey's favorite color was blue.) She was pale, but she looked charmingly pretty as she entered the room.
"You remember Mr. Estey," Mrs. Reynolds murmured. The next moment Helen found her hand in a warm clasp, and a pair of laughing gray eyes looking straight into hers.
"Oh, yes, I remember him very well," she contrived to say cheerfully.
"And I remember Mrs. Darling very well," came to her ears in Mr. Donald Estey's smoothly noncommittal voice. Then she forced herself to walk calmly across the room and to sit down leisurely.
What anybody said next she did not hear. Somewhere within her a voice was exulting: "I've done it, I've done it, and I didn't make a break!"
It was a small table, and conversation at dinner was general. At first Helen said little, not trustingherself to speak unless a question made speech imperative; but gradually she found the tense something within her relaxing. She was able then to talk more freely; and before the dinner was over she was apparently quite her usual self.
As to Mr. Donald Estey—Mr. Donald Estey was piqued and surprised, but mightily interested. Half his anticipated pleasure in this dinner had been the fact that he was to see Mrs. Darling again. She would blush and stammer, and be adorably embarrassed, of course. He had not forgotten how distractingly pretty she was when she blushed. He would like to see her blush again.
But here she was—and she had not blushed at all. What had happened? A cool little woman in a cool little gown had put a cool little hand in his, with a cool "Oh, yes, I remember him very well." And that was all. Yet she was the same Mrs. Darling that he had met six years before, and that had— But was she the same, really the same?ThatMrs. Darling could never have carried off a meeting like this with such sweet serenity. He wondered—
Mr. Donald Estey was still trying to pigeonhole the women he met.
Mr. Donald Estey found frequent opportunity for studying his new-old friend during the days that followed, for they were much together. In Mrs. Reynolds's eyes he made a very convenient fourth for a day's sight-seeing trip or a concert, and she often asked him to join them. Also he made an evenmore convenient escort for herself and Helen when, as often happened, Mr. Reynolds was unable to accompany them.
In one way and another, therefore, he was thrown often with this somewhat baffling young woman, who refused to be catalogued. The very fact that he still could not place her made him more persistent than ever. Besides, to himself he owned that he found her very charming—and very charming all the time. There was never on his part now that old feeling of aversion, of which he used to be conscious at times. And she was always quite the lady. He wondered how he could ever have thought her anything else. True, on that remarkable occasion six years before, she had said something about learning how to please—But he was trying to forget that scene. He did not believe that everything was quite straight about that extraordinary occasion. There must have been, in some way, a mistake. He did not believe, anyway, that it signified. At all events, he was not going to worry about a dead and gone past like that.
Mr. Donald Estey was not the only one that was trying to forget that occasion. Helen herself was putting it behind her whenever the thought of it entered her head. Thinking of it brought embarrassment; and she did not like to feel embarrassed. She believed that he was trying to show that he had forgotten it; and if he were disposed to forget the ridiculous affair, surely she should be more than glad to do it. And she considered it very fine of him—veryfine, indeed. She liked him, too. She liked him very much, and she enjoyed being with him. And there could be no harm now, either, in being with him all she liked, for he could never make the mistake of thinking she cared for him particularly. He understood that she loved some one else. They might be as friendly as they pleased. There could never—thank Heaven!—be any misunderstanding about their relationship.
Confidently serene, therefore, Helen Denby enjoyed to the full the stimulus of Mr. Donald Estey's companionship. Then, abruptly, her house of cards tumbled about her ears.
"Mrs. Darling, will you marry me?" the man asked one day. He spoke lightly, so lightly that she could not believe him serious. Yet she gave him a startled glance before she answered.
"Mr. Estey, please don't jest!"
"I'm not jesting. I'm in earnest. Will you marry me?"
"Mr. Estey!" She could only gasp her dismay.
"You seem surprised." He was still smiling.
"But you can't—you can't be in earnest, Mr. Estey."
"Why not, pray?"
"Why, you know—you must remember—what I—I told you, six years ago." The red suffused her face.
"You mean—that you cared for some one else?" He spoke gravely now. The smile was quite gone fromhis eyes. "But, Mrs. Darling, it's just there that I can't believeyou'rein earnest. Besides, that was six years ago."
"But I am in earnest, and it's the same—now," she urged feverishly. "Oh, Mr. Estey, please, please, don't let's spoil our friendship—this way. I thought you understood—I supposed, of course, you understood that I—I loved some one else very much."
"But, Mrs. Darling, you said that six years ago, and—and you're still freenow. Naturally no man would be such a fool as to let— So I thought, of course, that you had—had—" He came to a helpless pause.
The color swept her face again.
"But I told you then that I was—was learning—was trying to learn— Oh, why do you make me say it?"
He glanced at her face, then jerked himself to his feet angrily.
"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Darling, you don't expect me to believe that you now,noware still trying to learn to please (as you call it) some mythically impossible man!"
"He's not mythically impossible. He's real."
"Then he's blind, deaf, and dumb, I suppose!" Mr. Donald Estey's voice was still wrathful.
In spite of herself Helen Denby laughed.
"No, no, oh, no! He's—" Suddenly her face grew grave, and very earnest. "Mr. Estey, I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand. If you—youcare anything for me, you will not question me any more. Ican'ttell you. Please, please don't say any more."
But Mr. Donald Estey did say more—a little more. He did not say much, for the piteous pleading in the blue eyes stayed half the words on his lips before they were uttered. In the end he went away with a baffled, hurt pain in his own eyes, and Helen did not see him again for some days. But he came back in time. The pain still lurked in his eyes, but there was a resolute smile on his lips.
"If you'll permit, I want things to be as they were before," he told her. "I'm still your friend, and I hope you are mine."
"Why, of course, of course," she stammered. "Only, I—you—"
As she hesitated, plainly disturbed, he raised a quick hand of protest.
"Don't worry." His resolute smile became almost gay. "You'll see how good a friend I can be!"
If Mr. Donald Estey was hoping to take by strategy the citadel that had refused to surrender, he gave no sign. As the days came and went, he was clearly and consistently the good friend he had said he would be; and Helen Denby found no cause to complain, or to fear untoward results.