And so the winter passed and spring came; and it was on a beautiful day in early spring that Helen took Betty (now nine years old) to one of London's most famous curio-shops. There was to be an auctionshortly of a very valuable collection of books and curios, and the advertising catalogue sent to Mr. Reynolds had fallen into Helen's hands.
It was no new thing for Helen to haunt curio-shops and museum-cabinets given over to Babylonian tablets and Egyptian scarabs. Helen had never forgotten the little brown and yellow "soap-cakes" which were so treasured by Burke and his father, and of which she had been so jealous in the old days at Dalton. At every opportunity now she studied them. She wanted to know something about them; but especially she wanted Betty to know about them. Betty must know something about everything—that was of interest to Burke Denby.
To-day, standing with Betty before a glass case of carefully numbered treasures, she was so assiduously studying the catalogue in her hand that she did not notice the approach of the tall man wearing glasses, until an amused voice reached her ears.
"Going in for archæology, Mrs. Darling?"
So violent was her start that it looked almost like one of guilt.
"Oh, Mr. Estey! I—I didn't see you."
His eyes twinkled.
"I should say not—or hear me, either. I spoke twice before you deigned to turn. I did not know you were so interested in archæology, Mrs. Darling."
She laughed lightly.
"I'm not. I think it's—" Her face changed suddenly. "Oh, yes, I'm interested—very much interested,"she corrected hastily. "But I mean I—I don't know anything about it. But I—I'm trying to learn. Perhaps you—Canyou tell me anything about these things?"
Something in her face, the fateful "learn," and her embarrassed manner, sent his thoughts back to the scene between them years before. Stifling an almost uncontrollable impulse to query, "Is it to pleasehim, then, that you must learn archæology?" he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," he smiled. "Oh, I know alittlesomething of them, it's true; but I've just been chatting with a man out in the front shop who could talk to you by the hour about those things—and grow fat on it. He's looking at a toby jug now. Shall I bring him in?"
"No, no, Mr. Estey, of course not!"
"But, really, you'd find him interesting, I'm sure. I met him in Egypt last year. His name is Denby—a New Englander like— Why, Mrs. Darling, what is the matter? Are you faint? You're white as chalk!"
She shook her head.
"No, no, I'm all right. Did you mean"—with white lips she asked the question—"Mr. John Denby?" She threw a quick look at Betty, who was now halfway across the room standing in awed wonder before a huge Buddha.
"No, this is Burke Denby, John Denby's son. I met them both last year. But you seem to— Do you know them?"
"Yes." She said the word quietly, yet with an odd restraint that puzzled him. He saw that the color was coming back to her face—what he could not see or know was that underneath that calm exterior the little woman at his side was wildly adjuring herself: "Now, mind, mind, this is an emergency. Mind you meet it right!" He saw that she took one quick step toward Betty, only to stop and look about her a little uncertainly.
"Mr. Estey,"—she was facing him now. Her chin was lifted determinedly, but he noticed that her lips were trembling. "I do not want to see Mr. Burke Denby, and hemust notsee me. There is no way out of this place, apparently, except through the front shop, where he is. I want you to go out there and—and talk to him. Then Betty and I can slip by unnoticed."
"But—but—" stammered the dumfounded man.
"Mr. Estey, youwilldo what I ask you to—and please go—quickly! He's sure to come out to see—these." She just touched the case of Babylonian tablets.
To the man, looking into her anguished eyes, came a swift, overwhelming revelation. He remembered, suddenly, stories he had heard of a tragedy in Burke Denby's domestic affairs. He remembered words—illuminating words—that this woman had said to him. It could not be— And yet—
He caught his breath.
"Is he—are you—"
"I am Mrs. Burke Denby," she interrupted quietly. "You will not betray me, I know. Now, will you go, please?"
For one appalled instant he gazed straight into her eyes; then without a word he turned and left her.
He knew, a minute later, that he was saying something (he wondered afterward what it was) to Mr. Burke Denby out in the main shop. He knew, too, without looking up, that a woman and a little girl passed quietly by at the other side of the room and disappeared through the open doorway. Then, dazedly, Mr. Donald Estey looked about him. He was wondering if, after all, he had not been dreaming.
That evening he learned that it was not a dream. Freely, and with a frank confidence that touched him deeply, the woman he had known as Mrs. Darling told him the whole story. He heard it with naturally varying emotions. He tried to be just, to be coolly unprejudiced. He tried also, to hide his own heartache. He even tried to be glad that she loved her husband, as she so unmistakably did.
"And you'll tell him now, of course—where you are," he said, when she had finished.
"No, no! I can't do that."
"But do you think that is—right?"
"I am sure it is."
"But if your husband wants you—"
"He doesn't want me."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure."
A curious look came to the man's eyes, a grim smile to his lips.
"Er"—he hesitated a little—"you don't want to forget that—er—you have long ago qualified for—thatunderstudy. You remember that—Iwanted you."
The rich color that flamed into her face told that she fully understood what he meant, yet she shook her head vehemently.
"No, no! Ah, please, don't jest about—that. I was very much in earnest—indeed, I was! And I thought then—that I really could—could— But I understand—lots of things now that I never understood before. It is really all for Betty that I am working now. I want to makeher—what he would want her to be."
"Nonsense, my dear woman! As if you yourself were not the most—"
She stopped him with a gesture. Her eyes had grown very serious.
"I don't want you to talk that way, please. I would rather think—just of Betty."
"But what about—him?"
"I don't know." Her eyes grew fathomless. She turned them toward the window. "Of course I think and think and think. And of course I wonder—how it's all coming out. I'm sure I'm doing right now, and I think—I was doing right—then."
"Then?"
"When I went away—at the first. I can't see how I could have done anything else, as things were. Some way, all along, I've felt as if I were traveling a—a long road, and that on each side was a tall hedge. I can't look over it, nor through it. I can't even look ahead—very far. The road turns—so often. But there have never been any crossroads—there's never been any other way I could take, as I looked at it. Don't you see, Mr. Estey?"
"Yes, I think I see." The old baffled pain had come back to his eyes, but she did not seem to notice it. Her gaze had drifted back to the window.
"And so I feel that now I'm still on that road and that it's leading—somewhere; and some day I shall know. Until then, there isn't anything I can do—don't you see?—there isn't anything I can do but to keep—straight ahead. There really isn't, Mr. Estey."
"No, I suppose there isn't," said Mr. Donald Estey, rising to his feet with a long sigh.
One by one the years slipped by, swiftly, with little change. In Boston, the doctor, trying not to count them, still had not forgotten. From Helen, through his sister, came glowing accounts of concerts, lectures, travels, and language-lessons for herself and Betty. From Dalton, both directly and indirectly, began to come reports of a new gayety at the old Denby Mansion. Dinners and house-parties, and even a ball or two, figured in the reports.
Vexed and curious, the doctor—who had, of late, refused most of his invitations to Dalton—took occasion, between certain trips of his own, to go up to the little town, to see for himself the meaning of this, to him, unaccountable phase of the situation.
There was a big reception at Denby Mansion on the evening of the day of his arrival. The hotel parlor and office were abuzz with stories of the guests, decorations, and city caterer. There came to the doctor's ears, too, sundry rumors—some vague, others unpleasantly explicit—concerning a pretty little blonde widow, who was being frequently seen these days in the company of Burke Denby, the son.
"Of course he'd have to get a divorce—but he could do that easy," overheard the doctor in thecorridor. "His wife ran away, didn't she, years ago? I heard she did."
Uninvited and unheralded, the doctor attended the reception. Passing up the old familiar walk, he came to an unfamiliar, garish blaze of lights, a riot of color and perfume, a din of shrieking violins, the swish of silken skirts, and the peculiarly inane babble that comes from a multitude of chattering tongues.
Gorgeous lackeys reached unfamiliar hands for his hat and coat, and the doctor was nearly ready to turn and flee the delirium of horror, when he suddenly almost laughed aloud at sight of the half-perplexed, half-terrified, wholly disgusted face of Benton. At that moment the old manservant's eyes met his own, and the doctor's eyes grew suddenly moist at the beatific joy which illumined that harassed, anxious old face.
Regardless of the trailing silks and billowing tulle between them, Benton leaped to his side.
"Praise be, if it ain't Dr. Gleason!" he exulted, incoherent, but beaming.
"Yes; but what is this, Benton?" laughed the doctor. "What is the meaning of all this?"
The old butler rolled his eyes.
"Blest if I know, sir—indeed, I don't. But I'm thinking it's gone crazy I am. And sometimes I think maybe the master and young Master Burke, too, are going crazy with me. I do, sir!"
"I can well imagine it, Benton," smiled the doctor dryly, as he began to make his way toward the bigdrawing-room where John Denby and his son were receiving their guests.
The doctor could find no cause to complain of his welcome. It was cordial and manifestly sincere. He was introduced at once as an old and valued friend, and he soon found himself the center of a plainly admiring group. It was very evidently soon whispered about that he wastheDr. Frank Gleason of archæological and Arctic fame; and his only difficulty, after his first introduction, was to find any time for his own observations and reflections. He contrived, however, in spite of his embarrassing popularity, to see something of his hosts. He talked with them, when possible, and he watched them with growingly troubled eyes.
Many times that evening he saw the mask drop over John Denby's face. Twice he saw a slow turning away as of ineffable weariness. Once he saw a spasm as of pain twitch his lips; and he noted the quick, involuntary lifting of his hand to his side. He saw that usually, however, the master of Denby House stood tall and straight and handsome, with the cordial, genial smile of a perfect host.
As to Burke—it was when the doctor was watching Burke that the trouble in his eyes grew deepest. True, on Burke's face there was no mask of inscrutability, in his eyes was no weariness, on his lips no quick spasm of pain. He was gay, alert, handsome, and apparently happy. Nevertheless, the frown on the doctor's face did not diminish.
There was a look of too much wine—slight, perhaps, but unmistakable—on Burke Denby's face, that the doctor did not like. The doctor also did not like the way Burke devoted himself to the blonde young woman who was so eternally at his elbow.
This was the widow, of course. The doctor surmised this at once. Besides, he had met her. Her name was Mrs. Carrolton, and Mrs. Carrolton was the name he had heard so frequently in the hotel. The doctor did not like the looks of Mrs. Carrolton. She was beautiful, undeniably, in a way; but her blue eyes were shifting, and her mouth, when in repose, had hard lines. She was not the type of woman he liked to have Burke with, and he would not have supposed she was the sort of woman that Burke himself would care for. And to see him now, hanging upon her every word—
With a gesture of disgust the doctor turned his back and stalked to the farther side of the room, much to the surprise of a vapid young woman, to whom (he remembered when it was too late) he had been supposed to be talking.
A little later, in the dining-room, where he had passed so many restful hours with Burke and his father, about the softly lighted table, the doctor now, in the midst of a chattering, thronging multitude, attempted to keep his own balance, and that of a tiny, wobbly plate, intermittently heaped with salads, sandwiches, cakes, and creams, which he was supposed to eat, but which he momentarily and terrifyinglyexpected to deposit upon a silken gown or a spotless shirt-front.
The doctor was one of the first of John Denby's guests to make his adieus. He had decided suddenly that he must get away, quite away, from the sight of Burke and the little widow. Otherwise he should say something—a very strong something; and, for obvious reasons, he really could say—nothing.
Disgusted, frightened, annoyed, and aggrieved, he went home the next morning. To his sister he said much. He could talk to his sister. He gave first a full account of what he had seen and heard in Dalton, omitting not one detail. Then, wrathfully, he reproached her:—
"So you see what's come of your foolishness. Burke isn't building bridges for the Hottentots now. He's giving pink teas to flighty blondes."
Mrs. Thayer laughed softly.
"But that's only another way of trying to get away from himself, Frank," she argued.
"Yes, but I notice he isn't trying to get away from the widow," he snapped.
A disturbed frown came to the lady's face.
"I know." She bit her lips. "I am a little worried at that, Frank, I'll own. I've wondered, often, if—if there was ever any danger of something like that happening."
"Well, you wouldn't wonder any longer, if you should see Mrs. Nellie Carrolton," observed the doctor, with terse significance.
There was a moment's silence; then, sharply, the doctor spoke again.
"I'm going to write to Helen."
"Oh, Frank!"
"I am. I've got to. I don't think it's right not to."
"But what shall you—tell her?"
"That she'd better come home and look after her property; if she doesn't, she's likely to lose it. That's what I'm going to tell her."
"Oh, Frank!" murmured his distressed sister again; but she made no further demur. And that night the letter went.
In due course came the answer. It was short, but very much to the point. The doctor read it, and said a sharp something behind his teeth. Without another word he handed the note to his sister. And this is what she read:—
Dear Dr. Gleason:—He isn't my property. I can't lose him, for I haven't him to lose. He took himself away from me years ago. If ever I'm to win him back, I must win him—not compel him. If he thinks he's found some one else—all the more reason why I can't come back now, until he knows whether he wants her or not. But if I came now, and he should want her— Really, Dr. Gleason, I don't want the same man to tell me twice to—go.
Dear Dr. Gleason:—
He isn't my property. I can't lose him, for I haven't him to lose. He took himself away from me years ago. If ever I'm to win him back, I must win him—not compel him. If he thinks he's found some one else—all the more reason why I can't come back now, until he knows whether he wants her or not. But if I came now, and he should want her— Really, Dr. Gleason, I don't want the same man to tell me twice to—go.
Helen D.
"Hm-m; just about what I expected she'd say," commented the doctor's sister tranquilly, as she laid the letter down.
"Oh, you women!" flung out the doctor, springing to his feet and turning wrathfully on his heel.
The doctor was relieved, but not wholly eased in his mind some days later when he heard indirectly that Denby Mansion was closed, and that the Denbys were off again to some remote corner of the world.
"Well, anyhow, the widow isn't with him now," he comforted himself aloud.
"Building bridges for the Hottentots again?" smiled his sister.
"Yes. Australia this time."
"Hm-m; that's nice and far," mused the lady.
"Oh, yes, it's far, all right," growled the doctor, somewhat belligerently. "Anyhow, it's too far for the widow, thank Heaven!"
The doctor went himself "far" before the month was out. Already his plans were made for a six months' trip with a research party to his pet hunting-ground—the grotto land of northern Spain. Once more the calmness of silence and absence left Edith Thayer with only Helen Denby's occasional letters to remind her of Burke Denby and his matrimonial problem.
It was three years before the doctor went up to Dalton again. It was on a sad errand this time. John Denby had died suddenly, and after an hour's hesitation, the doctor went up to the funeral.
There were no garish lights and shrieking violins to greet him as he passed once more up the long, familiar walk. The warm September sun touched lovingly the old brass knocker, and peeped behind the stately colonial pillars of the long veranda. It gleamed for a moment on the bald heads of the somber-coated men filing slowly through the wide doorway, and it tried to turn to silver the sable crape hanging at the right of the door.
Not until that evening, after the funeral, did the doctor have the opportunity for more than a formal word of greeting and sympathy with Burke Denby. He had been shocked in the afternoon at the changes in the young man's face; but he was more so when, at eight o'clock, he called at the house.
He found Burke alone in the library—the library whose every book and chair and curio spoke with the voice of the man who was gone—the man who had loved them so well.
Burke himself, to the doctor, looked suddenly old and worn, and infinitely weary of life. He did notat once speak of his father. But when he did speak of him, a little later, he seemed then to want to talk of nothing else. Things that his father had done and said, his little ways, his likes and dislikes, the hours of delight they had passed together, the trips they had taken, even the tiddledywinks and Mother Goose of childhood came in for their share. On and on until far into the night he talked, and the doctor listened, with a word now and then of sympathy or appreciation; but with a growing ache in his heart.
"You have been, indeed, a wonderful father and son," he said at last unsteadily.
"There was never another like us." The son's voice was very low.
There was a moment's silence. The doctor, his beseeching eyes on the younger man's half-averted face, was groping in his mind for the right words to introduce the subject which all the evening had been at the door of his lips—Helen. He felt that now, with Burke's softened heart to lend lenience, and with his lonely life in prospect to plead the need of companionship, was the time, if ever, that an appeal for Helen might be successful. But the right words of introduction had not come to him when Burke himself began to speak again.
"And it's almost as if I'd lost both father and mother," he went on brokenly; "for dad talked so much of mother. To him she was always with us, I think. I can remember, when I was a little boy, how real she was to me. In all we did or said sheseemed to have a part. And always, all the way up, he used to talk of her—except for the time when—"
He stopped abruptly. The doctor, watching, wondered at the white compression that came suddenly to his lips. In a moment it was gone, however, and he had resumed speaking.
"Of late years, dad has seemed to talk more than ever of mother, and he spoke always as if she were with us. And now I'm alone—so utterly alone. Gleason—how ever am I going to live—without—dad!"
The doctor's heart leaped with mingled fear and elation: fear at what he was about to do; elation that his chance to do it had come. He cleared his throat and began, courageously, though not quite steadily.
"But—there's your wife, Burke. If only you—" He stopped short in dismay at the look that had come into Burke Denby's face.
"My wife! My wife! Don't speak of my wife now, man, if you want me to keep my reason! The woman who brought more sorrow to my father than any other living being! What do you think I wouldn't give if I could blot out the memory of the anguish my marriage brought to dad? I can see his eyes now, when he was pleading with me—beforeit. Afterwards—Do you know what a brick dad was afterwards? Well, I'll tell you. Never by so much as a look—much less a word—has he reproached or censured me. At first he—he just put up a wall between us. But it was a wall of grief and sore hurt. It was never anger. I know that now. Then, oneday, somehow, I found that wall down, and I looked straight into dad's eyes. It was never there again—that wall. I knew, of course, that dad had never—forgotten. The hurt and grief were still there,—that I could so disobey him, disregard his wishes,—but he would not let them be a wall between us any longer. Then, when it all turned out as it did— But he never once said, 'I told you so,' nor even looked it. And he was kind and good to Helen always. But when I think how I—I, who love him so—brought to him all that grief and anguish of heart, I— My wife, indeed! Gleason, I never want to see her face again, or hear her name spoken!"
"But your—your child," stammered the dismayed doctor faintly.
A shadow of quick pain crossed the other's face.
"I know. And that's another thing that grieved dad. He was fond of his little granddaughter. He used to speak of her, often, till I begged him not to. She's mine, of course; but she's Helen's, too,—and she is being brought up by Helen—not me. I can imagine what she's being taught—about her father," he finished bitterly.
"Oh, but I'm sure— I know she's—" With a painful color the doctor, suddenly warned from within just in time, came to a frightened pause.
Burke, however, lifting a protesting hand, changed the subject abruptly; and the relieved doctor was glad, for once, not to have him wish to talk longer of his missing wife and daughter.
Very soon the doctor said good-night and left the house. But his heart was heavy.
"Perhaps, after all," he sighed to himself, "it wasn't just the time to get him to listen to reason about Helen—when it was his runaway marriage that had so grieved his father years ago; and his father now—just gone."
From many lips, before he left town the next morning, Dr. Gleason learned much of the life and doings of the Denbys during the past few years. Perhaps the death of John Denby had made the Dalton tongues garrulous. At all events they were nothing loath to talk; and the doctor, eager to obtain anything that would enable him to understand Burke Denby, was nothing loath to listen.
"Yes, sir, he hain't been well for years—John Denby hain't," related one old man into the doctor's attentive, sympathetic ears. "And I ain't sayin' I wonder, with all he's been through. But you said you was a friend of his, didn't ye?"
The doctor inclined his head.
"I am, indeed, an old friend of the family."
"Well, it's likely, then, you know something yourself of what's happened—though 'course you hain't lived here to see it all. First, ye know, there was his son's marriage. And that cut the old man all up—runaway, and not what the family wanted at all.Youknow that, of course. But they made the best of it, apparently, after a while, and young Denby took hold first-rate at the Works. Right down tothe beginnin' he went, too,—overalls and day wages. And he done well—first-rate!—but it must 'a' galled some. Why, once, fur a spell, he workedunder my son—he did. The men liked him, too, when they got over their grinnin' and nonsense, and see he was in earnest.Youknow what a likely chap young Denbycanbe, when he wants to."
"None better!" smiled the doctor.
"Yes. Well, to resume and go on. Somethin' happened one day—in his domestic affairs, I mean. The pretty young wife and kid lit out for parts unknown. And the son went back to his dad. (He and his dad always was more like pals than anythin' else.) Some says he sent her away—the wife, I mean. Some says she runned away herself. Like enoughyouknow the rights of it."
There was a suggestion of a pause, and a sly, half-questioning glance; but at the absolute non-committalism of the other's face, the narrator went on hastily.
"Well, whatever was the rights or wrongs of it, she went, and hain't been seen in these 'ere parts since, as I know of. Not that Ishouldknow her if I did see her, howsomever! Well, that was a dozen—yes, fourteen years ago, I guess, and the old man hain't been the same since. He hain't been the same since the boy's marriage, for that matter.
"Well, at first, after she went, the Denbys went kitin' off on one o' them trips o' theirn, that they're always takin'; then they come home and opened up the old house, and things went on about as they usedto 'fore young Denby was married. But the old man fell sick—first on the trip, then afterwards, once or twice. He wa'n't well; but that didn't hinder his goin' off again. This time they went with one of their bridges. Always, before, they'd let Henry or Grosset manage the job; but this time they went themselves. After that they went lots—to South America, Africa, Australia, and I don't know where. They seemed restless and uneasy—both of 'em.
"Then they begun ter bring folks home with 'em: chaps who wore purple silk socks and neckties, and looked as if they'd never done a stroke of work in their lives; and women with high heels and false hair. My, but there was gay doin's there! Winters there was balls and parties and swell feeds with nigger waiters from Boston, and even the dishes and what they et come from there, too, sometimes, they say. Summers they rode in hayracks and autymobiles, and danced outdoors on the grass—shows, you know. And they was a show with the women barefooted and barearmed, and—and not much on generally. My wife seen 'em once, and she was that shocked she didn't get over it for a month. She said she was brought up to keep a modest dress on her that had a decent waist and skirt to it. But my Bill (he's been in Boston two years now) says it's a pageant and Art, and all right. That you can do it in pageants when you can't just walkin' along the street, runnin' into the neighbors'. See?"
"I see," nodded the doctor gravely.
"Oh, well, of course they didn't go 'round like that all the time. They played that thing lots where they have them little balls and queer-looking sticks to knock 'em with. They played it all over Pike's Hill and the Durgin pasture in Old Dalton; and they got my grandson to be a—a—"
"Caddie?" hazarded the doctor.
"Yes; that's what they called it. And he made good money, too,—doin' nothin'. Wish't they'd want me for one! Well, as I was sayin', they had all this comp'ny, an' more an' more of it; and they give receptions an' asked the hull town, sometimes. My wife went, and my darter. They said it was fine and grand, and all that, but that they didn't believe old John liked it very well. But Mr. Burke liked it. That was easy to be seen. And there was a pretty little widder there lots, andsheliked it. Some said as how they thought there'd be a match there, sometime, if he could get free. But I guess there wa'n't anythin' ter that. Anyhow, all of a sudden, somethin' happened. Everythin' stopped right off short—all the gay doin's and parties—and everybody went home. Then, the next thing we knew, the old house was dark and empty again, and the Denbys gone to Australia with another bridge."
"Yes, I know. I remember—that," interposed the doctor, alert and interested.
"Did you see 'em—when they come back?"
"No."
"Well, they didn't look like the same men. Andever since they've been different, somehow. Stern and silent, with never a smile for anybody, skursley. No balls an' parties now, you bet ye! Week in and week out, jest shut up in that big silent house—never goin' out at all except to the Works! Then we heard he was sick—Mr. John. But he got better, and was out again. The end come sudden. Nobody expected that. But he was a good man—a grand good man—John Denby was!"
"He was, indeed," agreed the doctor, with a long sigh, as he turned away.
This story, with here and there a new twist and turn, the doctor heard on all sides. And always he listened attentively, hopefully, eager, if possible, to find some detail that would help him in some further plea to Burke Denby in behalf of the far-away wife. Even the women wanted to talk to him, and did, sometimes to his annoyance. Once, only, however, did his irritation get the better of his manners. It was when the woman of whom he bought his morning paper at the station newsstand, accosted him—
"Stranger in these parts, ain't ye? Come to the fun'ral, didn't ye?"
"Why—y-yes."
"Hm-m; I thought so. He was a fine man, I s'pose. Still, I didn't think much of him myself. Used to know him too well, maybe. Used to live next his son—same floor. My name's Cobb—and I used to see—" But the doctor had turned on his heel without even the semblance of an apology.
Ten minutes later he boarded the train for Boston.
To his sister again he told the story of a Dalton trip, and, as before, he omitted not one detail.
"But I can't write, of course, to Helen, now," he finished gloomily. "That is, I can't urge her coming back—not in the face of Burke's angry assertion that he never wants to see her again."
"Of course not. But don't worry, dear. I haven't given up hope, by any means. Burke worshiped his father. His heart is almost breaking now, at his loss. It is perfectly natural, under the circumstances, that he should have this intense anger toward anything that ever grieved his loved father. But wait. That's all we can do, anyway. I'll write to Helen, of course, and tell her of her father-in-law's death, but—"
"You wouldn't tell her what Burke said, Edith!"
"Oh, no, no, indeed!—unless Ihaveto, Frank—unless she asks me."
But Helen did ask her. By return steamer came her letter expressing her shocked distress at John Denby's death, and asking timidly, but urgently, if, in Mrs. Thayer's opinion, it were the time now when she should come home—if she would be welcomed by her husband. To this, of course, there was but one answer possible; and reluctantly Mrs. Thayer gave it.
"And to think," groaned the doctor, "that when now, for the first time, Helen is willing to come, we have to tell her—she can't!"
"I know, but"—Edith Thayer resolutely blinked off the tears—"I haven't given up yet. Just wait."
And the doctor waited. It was, indeed, as his sister said, all that he could do. From time to time he went up to Dalton and made his way up the old familiar walk to have a chat with the taciturn, somber-eyed man sitting alone in the great old library. The doctor never spoke of Helen. He dared not take the risk. Burke Denby's only interests plainly were business, books, and the rare curios he and his father had collected. A Mrs. Gowing, a distant cousin, had come to be his housekeeper, but the doctor saw little of her. She seemed to be a quiet, inoffensive little woman, plainly very much in the background.
There came an evening finally, however, when, much to the doctor's beatific surprise, Burke Denby, of his own accord, mentioned his wife.
It was nearly two years after John Denby's death. The doctor had run up to Dalton for an overnight visit, and had noticed at once a peculiar restlessness in his host's manner, an odd impatience of voice and gesture. Then, abruptly, in answer to the doctor's own assertion that Burke needed something to get him away from his constant brooding in the old library,—
"Need something?" he exclaimed. "Of course I need something! I need my wife and child. I need to live a normal life like other men. I need— But what's the use?" he finished, with outflung hands.
"I know; but—you, yourself—" By a supreme effort the doctor was keeping himself from shouting aloud with joy.
"Oh, yes, I know it's all my own fault," cut inBurke crisply. "You can't tell me anything new on that score, that I haven't told myself. Yes, and I know I haven't even been willing to have her name spoken," he went on recklessly, answering the amazement in the doctor's face. "For that matter, I don't know why I'm talking like this now—unless it's because I've always said to you more than I've said to any one else—except dad—about Helen. And now, after being such a cad, it seems almost—due to her that I should say—something. Besides, doesn't somebody say somewhere that confession is good for the soul?"
There was a quizzical smile on his lips, but there was no smile in his eyes.
The doctor nodded dumbly. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he dared not open his lips. But, terrified at the long silence that followed, he finally ventured unsteadily:—
"But why—this sudden change, Burke?"
"It's not so sudden as you think." Burke's eyes, gloomily fixed on the opposite wall, did not turn as he spoke. "It's been coming gradually for a long time. I can see that now. Still, the real eye-opener finally came from—mother."
"Your—mother!"
"Yes, her diary—or, rather, diaries. I found them a month ago among father's things. I can't tell you what was in them. I wouldn't, of course, if I could. They're too—sacred. Perhaps you think even I should not have read them; perhaps I shouldn't.But I did, and I'm glad I did; and I believe she'd have wanted me to.
"Of course, at first, when I picked one of them up, I didn't know what it was. Then I saw my name, and I read—page after page. I was a baby—her baby. Gleason, can you imagine what it would be to look deep down into the soul of a good woman and read there all her love, hopes, prayers, and ambitions for her boy—and then suddenly realize that you yourself were that boy?"
There was no answer; and Burke, evidently expecting none, went on with the rush of abandonment that told of words suddenly freed from long restraint.
"I took up then the first one—the diary she kept that first year of her marriage; and if I had felt small and mean and unworthy before— On and on I read; and as I read, I began to see, dimly, what marriage means—for a woman. They were very poor then. Father was the grandson of the younger, runaway son, Joel, and had only his trade and his day wages. They lived in a shabby little cottage on Mill Street, long since destroyed. This house belonged to the other branch of the family, and was occupied by a rich old man and his daughter. Mother was gently reared, and was not used to work. Those first years of poverty and privation must have been wickedly hard for her. But the little diaries carried no complaints. They did carry weariness, often, and sometimes a pitiful terror lest she be not strong enough for what was before her, and so bring disappointmentand grief to 'dear John.' But always, for 'dear John,' I could see there was to be nothing but encouragement and a steadfast holding forth of high aims and the assurance of ultimate success.
"Then, one by one, came the babies, with all the agony and fears and hopes they brought with them. Three came and slipped away into the great unknown before I came—to stay. About that time father's patents began to bring success, and soon the money was pouring in. They bought this house. It had been one of their dreams that they would buy it. The old man had died, and the daughter had married and moved away, and the house had been for sale for some time. So they bought it, and soon after I was born we came here to live. Then, when I was four years old, mother died.
"That is the story—the bald story. But that doesn't tell you anything of what those diaries were to me. In the light they shed I saw my own marriage—and I was ashamed. I never thought of marriage before from Helen's standpoint. I never thought what she had to suffer and endure, and adapt herself to. I know now. Of course, very soon after our marriage, I realized that she and I weren't suited to each other. But what of it? I had married her. I had effectually prevented her from finding happiness with any other man; yet it didn't seem to occur to me that I had thereby taken on myself the irrevocable duty of trying to make her happy. I have no doubt that my ways and aims and likes and dislikes annoyedher as much as hers did me. But it never occurred to me that my soft greens and browns and Beethoven harmonies got on her nerves just exactly as her pinks and purples and ragtime got on mine. I was never in the habit of looking at anybody's happiness but my own; andIwasn't happy. So I let fling, regardless."
Burke paused, and drew a long sigh. The doctor, puffing slowly at his cigar, sedulously kept his face the other way. The doctor, in his fancy, had already peopled the old room with a joyous Helen and Dorothy Elizabeth; and he feared, should he turn, that his face would sing a veritable Hallelujah Chorus—to the consequent amazement of his host.
"Mother had trials of her own—lots of them," resumed Burke, after a moment's silence. "She even had some not unlike mine, I believe, for I think I could read between the lines that dad was more than a bit careless at times in manner and speech compared to the polished ways of the men of her family and social circle. But mother neither whined nor ran away. She just smiled and kept bravely straight ahead; and by and by they were under her feet, where they belonged—all those things that plagued. But I—I both whined and ran away—because I didn't like the way my wife ate her soup and spread her bread. They seem so small now—all those little ways I hated—small beside the big things that really counted. Do you know? I believe if more people would stop making the little things big and the big things little, there'd be a whole heap more happinesslying around in this old world! And Helen—poor Helen! She tried— I know she tried. Lots of times, when I was reading in the diaries what mother said about dad,—how she mustn't let him get discouraged or downhearted; how she must tell him she just knew he was going to succeed,—lots of times then I'd think of Helen. Helen used to talk that way to me at the first! I wonder now if Helen kept a diary! And I can't help wondering if, supposing I had been a little less apt to notice the annoyances, and a little more inclined to see the good— Bah! There, there, old man, forgive me," he broke off, with a shrug. "I didn't mean to run on like this. I really didn't—for all the world like the heart-to-heart advice to the lovelorn in a daily news column!"
"I'm glad you did, Burke." The doctor's carefully controlled voice expressed cheery interest; that was all. "And now what do you propose to do?"
"Do? How? What do you mean?"
"Why, about—your wife, of course."
"Nothing. There's nothing I can do. And that's the pity of it. She will go on, of course, to the end of her life, thinking me a cad and a coward."
"But if you could be—er—brought together again," suggested the doctor in a voice so coldly impersonal it was almost indifferent.
"Oh, yes, of course—perhaps. But that's not likely. I don't know where she is, remember; and she's not likely to come back of her own accord, after all this time. Besides, if she did, who's to guaranteethat a few old diaries have changed me from an unbearably selfish brute to a livably patient and pleasant person to have about the house? Not but what I'd jump at the chance to try, but— Well, we'll wait till I get it," he finished dryly, with a lightness that was plainly assumed.
"Well, anyway, Burke, you've never found any one else!" The Hallelujah Chorus did almost sing through the doctor's voice this time.
"No, I've been spared that, thank Heaven. There was one—a Mrs. Carrolton."
"Yes, I met her—at that reception, you know," said the doctor, answering the unspoken question.
"Oh, yes, I remember. Well, I did come near—but I pulled myself up in time. I knew, in my heart, she wasn't the kind of woman— Then, too, there was Helen. It was only that I was feeling particularly reckless that fall. Besides, I know now that I've cared for Helen—the real Helen—all the time. And thereisa real Helen, I believe, underneath it all. As I look back at them—all those years—I know that during every single one of them I've been trying to get away from myself. If it hadn't been for dad—and that's the one joy I have: that I was able to be with dad. They weren't quite lost—those years, for they brought him joy."
"No, they've not been lost, Burke," said the doctor, with quiet emphasis.
Burke laughed a little grimly.
"Oh, I know what you mean, of course. I'vebeen 'tried as by fire'—eh? Well, I dare say I have—and I've been found woefully wanting. But enough of this!" he broke off abruptly, springing to his feet. "You don't happen to know of a young woman who has the skill of experience, the wisdom of age, the adaptability of youth, and the patience of Job all in one, do you?" he demanded.
The doctor turned with startled eyes.
"Why, Burke, after all this, you don't mean—"
"No, it's not a wife I'm looking for," interposed Burke, with a whimsical shrug. "It's a—a stenographer or private secretary, only she must be much more than the ordinary kind. I want to catalogue all this truck father and I have accumulated. She must know French and German—a little Greek and Hebrew wouldn't be amiss. And I want one that would be interested in this sort of thing—one who will realize she isn't handling—er—potatoes, say. My eyes are going back on me, too, and I shall want her to read to me; so I must like her voice. I don't want anything, you see," he smiled grimly.
"I should say not," laughed the doctor, rising. "But before you can give me any more necessary qualifications, I guess I'd better be going to bed."
"I don't wonder, after the harangue I've given you. But—you don't know of such a person, do you?"
"I don't."
"No, I suppose not—nor anybody else," finished Burke Denby, a profound gloom that had become habitual settling over his face.
"If I do I'll send her to you," nodded the doctor, halfway through the door. The doctor was in a hurry to get up to his room—he had a letter to write.
"Thanks," said Burke Denby, still dryly, as he waved his hand in good-night.
"Stenographer, indeed!" sang the doctor under his breath, bounding up the stairs like a boy. "Wait till he sees what I am going to get him!" he finished, striding down the hall and into his own room.
Before he slept the doctor wrote his letter to Helen. It was a long one, and a joyous one. It told everything that Burke had said, even to his plaintive plea for a private secretary.
There could be no doubt now, no further delay, declared the doctor. Helen would come home at once, of course. It only remained for them to decide on the mere details of just how and when. Meanwhile, when might they expect her in Boston? She would come, of course, to his sister's first; and he trusted it would be soon—very soon.
Addressing the letter to Mrs. Helen Darling, the doctor tucked it into his pocket to be mailed at the station in the morning. Then, for the few hours before rising time, he laid himself down to sleep. But he did not sleep. His brain was altogether too actively picturing the arrival of Helen Denby and her daughter at the old Denby Mansion, and the meeting between them and the master of the house. And to think that at last it was all coming out right!
Impatient as was the doctor for an answer to his letter, it came before he expected, for a cablegram told of Helen's almost immediate departure for America.
"I thought that would fetch her," he crowed to his sister. "And she'll be here just next week Wednesday. That'll get her up to Dalton before Sunday."
"Perhaps," observed Mrs. Thayer cautiously.
"No 'perhaps' to it," declared the doctor,—"if the boat gets here. You don't suppose she's going to delay any longer now, do you? Besides, isn't she starting for America about as soon as she can? Does that look as if she were losing much time?"
"No, it doesn't," she admitted laughingly.
The doctor and his sister were not surprised to see a very lovely and charming Helen with the distinction and mellow maturity that the dozen intervening years had brought. Her letters had shown them something of that. But they were not prepared for the changes those same years had wrought in Dorothy Elizabeth.
To Helen, their frank start of amazement and quick interchange of glances upon first sight of the girl were like water to a long-parched throat.
"You do think she's lovely?" she whispered to the frankly staring doctor, as Mrs. Thayer welcomed the young girl.
"Lovely! She's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!" avowed the doctor, with a laughing shrug at his own extravagance.
"And she's just as sweet and dear as she is lovely," whispered back the adoring mother, as the girl turned to meet the doctor.
"You've your mother's eyes, my dear," said the doctor, very much as he had said it to the little Betty years before.
"Have I?" The girl smiled happily. "I'm so glad! I love mother's eyes."
It was not until hours later, when Betty had gone to bed, that there was any opportunity to talk over plans. Then, before the fire in the library, Helen found herself alone with the doctor and his sister.
"You see, I came almost as soon as I could," she began at once. "I did stay one day—for a wedding."
"A wedding?"
"Yes, and some one you know, too— Mr. Donald Estey."
"Really?" cried Mrs. Thayer.
"Jove! After all this time?" The doctor's eyebrows went up.
"Yes. And I'm so glad—especially glad for—for he thought once, years ago, that he cared for some one else. And I like to know he's happy—now."
"Hm-m," murmured the doctor, with a shrewd smile and a sidelong glance at his sister. "So he's happy—now, eh?"
"Oh, very! And she's a beautiful girl."
"As beautiful as—Betty, say?" The doctor's voice was teasing.
A wonderful light came to Helen's face.
"You do think she's beautiful, don't you?" she cried, with a smile that told she needed no answer.
"She's a dear—in every way," avowed Mrs. Thayer.
"And to think of all this coming to Burke Denby, without even a turn of his hand," envied the doctor. "Lucky dog! And to get youboth! He doesn't deserve it!"
"But he isn't going to get us both!" Helen's eyes were twinkling, but her mouth showed suddenly firm lines.
The doctor wheeled sharply.
"What do you mean? Surely,nowyou aren't going to—to—" He stopped helplessly.
"He's going to gether—but not me."
"Oh, come, come, Helen, my dear!" protested two dismayed voices.
But Helen shook her head decidedly.
"Listen. I've got it all planned. You said he wanted a—a sort of private secretary or stenographer, didn't you?"
"Why, y-yes."
"Well, I'm going to send Betty."
"Betty!"
"Certainly. She can fill the position—you needn't worry about that. She's eighteen, you know, and she's really very self-reliant and capable. She doesn'tunderstand shorthand, of course; but she can write his letters for him, just the same, and in three or four languages, if he wants her to. She can typewrite. Mr. Reynolds got a typewriter for the girls long ago. And shelovesto fuss over old books and curios. She and Gladys have spent days in those old London shops."
"A real Denby digger—eh?" smiled the doctor.
"Yes. And I've been so glad she was interested—like her father."
"But you don't mean you're going to give your daughter up," cried Mrs. Thayer, aghast, "and not go yourself!"
"You couldn't! Besides, as if Burke would stand for that," cut in the doctor.
"But he isn't going to know sheishis daughter," smiled Helen.
"Not know she is his daughter!" echoed two voices, in stupefaction.
"No—not yet. She'll be his private secretary. That is all. I'm relying on you to—er—apply for the situation for her." Helen's eyes were merry.
"Oh, nonsense! This is too absurd for words," spluttered the doctor.
"I don't think so."
"His own daughter writing his letters for him, and living with him day by day, and he not to know it? Bosh! Sounds like a plot from a shilling shocker!"
"Does it? Well, I ought not to mind that, ought I?—you know 'twas a book in the first place thatset me to making myself 'swell' and 'grand,' sir." In Helen's eyes was still twinkling mischief.
"Oh, but, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Thayer with genuine concern. "I do think this is impossible."
The expression on Helen Denby's face changed instantly. Her eyes grew very grave, but luminously tender. Her lips trembled a little.
"People, dear people, if you'll listen just a minute I think I can convince you," she begged. "I have it all planned out. Betty and I will go to Dalton and find a quiet little home somewhere. Oh, I shall keep well out of sight—never fear," she nodded, in reply to the quick doubt in the doctor's eyes. "Betty shall go every morning to her father's house, and—I'm not afraid of Betty. He will love her. He can't help it. And he will see how dear and sweet and good she is. Then, by and by, he shall know that she is his—his very own."
"But—but Betty herself! Can she act her part in this remarkable scheme?" demanded the doctor.
"She won't be acting a part. She'll just be acting herself. She is not to know anything except that she is his secretary."
"Impossible!" ejaculated two voices.
"I don't think so. Anyway, it's worth trying; and if it works it'll mean—everything." The last word was so low it was scarcely above a whisper.
"But—yourself, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Thayer. "Where do you come in? What part have you in this—play?"
The rich red surged from neck to brow. The doctor and his sister could see that, though they could not see Helen Denby's face. It was turned quite away. There was a moment's silence; then, a little breathlessly, came the answer.
"I—don't—know. I suppose that will be—the 'curtain,' won't it? And—I've never been sure of the ending—yet. But—" She hesitated; then suddenly she turned, her eyes shining and deeply tender. "Don't you see? It's the only way, after all. I can't very well go up to Dalton and ring his doorbell and say, 'Here, behold your wife and daughter. Won't you please take us in?'—can I? Though at first, when I heard of his father's death and thought of him so lonely there, I did want to do—just that. But I knew that wasn't best, even before your letter came telling me—what he said.
"But now—why, this is just what I've wanted from the first—to show Betty to him, some time, when he didn't dream who she was. I wanted toknowthat he wasn't—ashamed of her. And this (his wanting a secretary) gave me a better chance than I ever thought I could have. Why, people, dear people, don't you see?—with this I shan't mind now one bit all these long, long years of waiting. Won't you help me—please? I can't, of course, do it without your help."
The doctor threw up both his hands—his old gesture of despair.
"Help you? Of course we'll help you, just as wedid before—to get the moon, if you ask for it. I feel like a comic opera and a movie farce all in one; but never mind. I'll do it. Now, what is it Iamto do?"
Helen relaxed into such radiant joyousness and relief, that she looked almost like the girl Burke Denby had married nineteen years before.
"You dear! I knew you would!" she breathed.
"Yes; but what is it?" he groaned in mock despair. "Speak out. I want to know the worst at once. WhatamI to do?"
"Please, you're to go up to Dalton and tell Mr. Burke Denby you think you've found a young woman who will make him an excellent secretary. Then, if he consents to try her, you're to find a little furnished apartment on a nice, quiet street, not too far from the Denby Mansion, of course, where we can live. Then I'd like a note of introduction for Betty to take to her father: she's the daughter of an old friend whom you've known for years—see?—and you are confident she will give satisfaction. That's all. Now, I'm sure—isn't all that quite—easy?"
"Oh, very easy,—very easy, indeed!" replied the doctor, with another groan. "You little witch! I declare I believe you'll carry this absurd, preposterous thing through to a triumphant finish, after all."
"Thank you. Iknewyou wouldn't fail me," smiled Helen, with tear-wet eyes.
"But, my dear, I don't think yet that everything is quite clear," demurred Mrs. Thayer. "How about Betty? Just what does Betty know of her father?"
A look very like fear crossed the bright face opposite. "She knows nothing, of course, of—of my leaving home and the cause of it. I've never told her anything of her father except to hold him up as a symbol of everything good and lovable. When she was a little girl, you know, I could always do anything with her by just telling her that daddy wanted it so."
"But where does she think he is? Now that she is older, she must have asked some questions," murmured Mrs. Thayer.
Helen shook her head. A faint smile came to her lips. "She hasn't; but I've been so afraid she would, and I've been dreading it always. Then one day Mrs. Reynolds told me something Betty said to her. Since then I've felt a little easier."
"Does Mrs. Reynolds know who you really are?" interposed the doctor.
"Yes, oh, yes. I told her long ago—even before she took me to London with her, in fact. I thought she ought to know. I've been so glad, since, that I did. It saved me from lots of awkward moments. Besides, it enabled her to be all the more help to me."
"But what was it Betty said to her?" asked Mrs. Thayer.
"Oh, yes; I didn't tell you, did I? It was this. She asked Mrs. Reynolds one day: 'Did you ever know my father?' And of course Mrs. Reynolds said, 'No.' Then Betty said: 'He is dead, you know. Oh, mother never told me so, in words; but I understand that he is, of course. She just used to say that Imustn't ask for daddy. He couldn't be with us now. That was all. At first, when I was little, I thought he was away on a journey. Then, when I got older, I realized it was just mother's beautiful way of putting it. So now I like to think of him as being just away on a journey. And ofcourseI never say anything to mother. But I do wish I could have known him. He must have been so fine and splendid!'"
"The dear child!" murmured Mrs. Thayer.
The doctor turned on his heel and walked over to the window abruptly.
There was a moment's silence; then softly, Helen said, as she rose to her feet: "So you see now I'm not worrying so much for fear she will question me; and I shall be so happy, by and by, when she finds that daddy has been, after all, only on a journey."
Edith Thayer, alone with her brother, after Helen Denby had gone upstairs, wiped her eyes.
It was the doctor who spoke first.
"If Burke Denby doesn't fall head over heels in love with that little woman andknowhe's got the dearest treasure on earth, I—I shall do it myself," he declared savagely. He, too, was wiping his eyes.
His sister laughed tremulously.
"Well, I am in love with her—and I'm not ashamed to own it," she declared. "How altogether dear and charming and winsome she is! And when you think—what these years have done for her!"