"Because he said twice that I reminded him of some one, particularly with my hat on; and both times, afterward, he looked so romantic and solemn"—Betty's eyes began to twinkle—"that I thought maybe I was on the track of a real, live love-story, you see. But he hasn't said anything about it lately; so perhaps I was mistaken, after all. You see, really, he's quite like folks, now, since we've been working on the curios."
"And how are you getting along with those?"
"Very well, only it's slow, of course. There is such a mass of material, and so much to look up and study up besides. We're just getting it together and tabulating it now on temporary sheets. We shan't begin the real cataloguing on the final cards until we have all our material in hand, Mr. Denby says."
"But you aren't getting tired of it?"
"Not a bit! I love it—even the digging after dates. I'm sureyoucan understand that," she smiled.
"Yes, I can understand that," he smiled back at her. And now, for the first time for long minutes, he dared to look across the room into Helen Denby's eyes.
In thinking it over afterwards Burke Denby tried to place the specific thing that put into his mind that most astounding suggestion. He knew very well the precise moment of the inception of the idea—it had been on Christmas night as he sat before the fire in his gloomy library. But what had led to it? Of just what particular episode concerning his acquaintance with this girl had he been thinking when, like a blinding flash out of the dark, had leaped forth those startling words?
He had been particularly lonely that evening, perhaps because it was Christmas, and he could not help comparing his own silent fireside with the gay, laughter-filled, holly-trimmed homes all about him. Being Christmas, he had not had even the divertisement of his secretary's presence—companionship. Yes, it was companionship, he decided. It could not but be that when she brought so much love and enthusiasm to the work, as well as the truly remarkable skill and knowledge she displayed. And she was, too, such a charming girl, so bright and lovable. The house had not been the same since she came into it. He hoped he might keep her. He should not like to let her go—now. But if only she could be there all the time! It would be much easier forher—winterstorms were coming on now; and as for him—he should like it very much. The evenings were interminably long sometimes. He wondered if, after all, it might not be arranged. There was a mother, he believed. They lived in an apartment on West Hill. But she could doubtless be left all right, or she might even come, too, if it were necessary. Surely the house was large enough, and she might be good company for his cousin. And it would be nice for the daughter. It might, indeed, be a very suitable arrangement all around.
Of course, if he had a wife and daughter of his own, he would not have to be filling his house with strangers like this. If Helen had not— Curious, too, how the girl was always making him think of Helen—her eyes, especially when she had on her hat, and little ways she had—
It came then, with an electric force that brought him to his feet with almost a cry:—
"What if she were—maybe sheis—your daughter!"
As he paced the room feverishly, Burke Denby tried to bring the chaos of thoughts into something like order.
It was absurd, of course. It could not be. And yet—there were her eyes so like Helen's, and the way she had of pushing back her hair, and of lifting her chin when she was determined about something. There were, too, actually some little things in her that reminded him of—himself. And surely her remarkablelove and aptitude for the work she was doing for him now ought to mean—something.
But could it be? Was itpossible? Would Helen do such a fantastic thing—send him his own daughter like this? And the doctor—this girl had been introduced by him. Then he, too, must be in the plot. "A daughter of an old friend." Yes, that might be. But would Gleason lend himself to such a wild scheme? It seemed too absurd to be possible. And yet—
His mind still played with the idea.
Just what did he know about this young woman? Very little. What if, after all, it were Dorothy Elizabeth? And it might be, for all heknewto thecontrary. She was about the right age, he should judge—his little girl would be eighteen—by now. Her name was Elizabeth; she had told him that, at the same time saying that she was always called "Betty." There was a mother—but he had never heard the girl mention her father. And they had dropped, as it were, right out of a clear sky into Dalton, and into his life. Could it be? Of course it really was too absurd; but yet—
With a sudden setting of his jaws the man determined to put his secretary through a course of questions, the answers to which would forever remove all doubt, one way or another. If at the onset of the questioning she grew suddenly evasive and confused, he would have his answer at once: she was his daughter, and was attempting to keep the knowledge from him until such time as her mother should wish to letthe secret out. On the other hand, even if she were not confused or evasive as to her answers, she still might be his daughter—and not know of the relationship. In which case his questions, of course, must be carried to the point where he himself would be satisfied. Meanwhile he would think no more about it; and, above all, he would keep his thoughts from dwelling on what it would be if—she were.
Having reached this wise decision, Burke Denby tossed his half-smoked cigar into the fire and attempted to toss as lightly the whole subject from his mind—an attempt which met with sorry success.
Burke Denby plumed himself that he was doing his questioning most diplomatically when, the next morning, he began to carry out his plans. With almost superhuman patience he had waited until the morning letters were out of the way, and until he and his secretary were working together over sorting the papers in a hitherto unopened drawer.
"Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Darling?" Careless as was his apparent aim, it was the first gun of his campaign.
"Yes, thank you, very pleasant."
"I didn't. Too quiet. A house needs young people at Christmas. If only I had a daughter now—" He watched her face closely, but he could detect no change of color. There was only polite, sympathetic interest. "Let me see, you live with your mother, I believe," he finished somewhat abruptly.
"Yes."
"Have you lived in Dalton long?"
"Only since October, when I came to you."
"Do you like it here?"
"Oh, yes, very well."
"Still, not so well as where you came from, perhaps," he smiled pleasantly.
Betty laughed.
"But I came—from so many places."
"That so?"
"Paris, Berlin, London, Genoa,—mostly London, of late."
"But you are American born!"
"Oh, yes."
"I thought so. Still, it is a little singular, having been gone so long, that you are so American in your speech and manner. You aren't a bit English, Miss Darling."
Betty laughed again merrily.
"How mother would love to hear you say that!" she cried. "You see, mother was so afraid I would be—English, or something foreign—educated as I was almost entirely across the water. But we were with Americans all the time, and our teachers, except for languages, were Americans, whenever possible."
"Hm-m; I see. And now you are here in America again. And does your mother like it—here?"
"Why, I think so."
"And does she like Dalton, too? Perhaps she has been here before, though." The casual way in whichthe question was put gave no indication of the way the questioner was holding his breath for the answer.
"Oh, yes. She was here several years ago, she says."
"Indeed!" To Burke Denby it was as if something within him had suddenly snapped. He relaxed in his chair. His eyes were still covertly searching Betty's serene face bent over her work. Within himself he was saying: "Well,shedoesn't know, whatever it is." Aloud he resumed: "And were you, too, ever here?"
"Why, yes; but I don't remember it. I was only a year or two old, mother said."
The man almost leaped from his chair. Then, sternly, he forced himself to work one full minute without speaking. A dozen agitated questions were clamoring for utterance, but he knew better than to give them voice. With a cheery casualness of manner, that made him inordinately proud of himself, he said:—
"Well, I certainly am glad you came now. I'm sure I don't know what I should have done, if you hadn't. But, by the way, how did you happen to come to me?" Again he held his breath.
"Why, through Dr. Gleason. You knew that!"
"Yes, but I know only that. You never did—exactly this sort of work before, did you?"
"No—oh, no. But there has to be a beginning, you know; and mother says she thinks every girl ought to know how to do something, so that she cansupport herself if it is necessary. And in our case I think—it is necessary."
Low as the last words were, the man's sensitively alert ear caught them.
"You mean—"
"I mean—I think mother is—is poor, and is trying to keep it from me." The words came with all the impetuosity of one who has found suddenly a sympathetic ear for a long-pent secret. "I can see it in so many ways—not keeping a maid, and being so—so anxious that I shall do well here. And—and she doesn't seem natural, some way, lately. She's unhappy, or something. And she goes out so little—almost never, except in the evening."
"She doesn't care to—to see people, perhaps." By a supreme effort Burke Denby hid the fever of excitement and rejoicing within him, and toned his voice to just the right shade of solicitous interest.
"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively, she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I've wondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and—and didn't want to meet them because—perhaps, her circumstances were changed now. That isn't like mother, but— Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr. Denby. I—I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemed so—interested."
"I am interested, my dear—Miss Darling," returned the man, not quite steadily. "I—I think I should like to know—your mother."
"She's lovely."
"Are you—like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merry challenge—against her taking this as she might take it.
But Betty was too absorbed to be flippant, or even merrily self-conscious.
"Why, I don't know, but I don't think so—except my eyes. Every one says my eyesarelike hers."
Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room. Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian glass Tear Vase, especially prized by him for its associations. In reality he was trying to master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt. This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his—Betty. Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her—father. And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine what Helen must have taught her—of him.
Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, Burke Denby walked back to the table and sat down.
"Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feel that I know her already. But—your father; I don't think you have told me a thing about your father yet."
A rapt wistfulness came to the girl's face.
"Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. You see, I never knew him."
"No?"
Infinite longing and tenderness were coming into the man's eyes.
"But I knowabouthim. Mother has told me, you see. So I know just how fine and noble and splendid he was, and—"
"Fine—he—was?" The words, as they fell from Burke Denby's dry lips were barely audible.
"Oh, yes. You see, all the way, ever since I could remember, daddy has been held up to me as so fine and splendid. Why, I learned to hold my fork—and my temper!—the way daddy would want me to. And there wasn't a song or a sunset or a beautiful picture that I wasn't told how daddy would have loved it. Mother was always talking of him, and telling me about him; so I feel that I know him, just as if he were alive."
"As—if—he—were—alive!" Burke Denby half started from his chair, his face a battle-ground for contending emotions.
"Yes. But he isn't, you see. He died many, many years ago."
There was the sudden tinkling of shattered glass on a polished floor.
"Oh, Mr. Denby!" exclaimed Betty in consternation. "Your beautiful vase!"
The man, however, did not even glance at the ruin at his feet. Still, he must have realized what he had done, thought Betty, for, as he crossed to his desk and sat down heavily, she heard him mutter:—
"To think Icouldhave been—such a fool!"
Not until Burke Denby became convinced that Miss Elizabeth Darling was not his daughter did he realize how deeply the thought that she might be had taken hold of his very life—how closely entwined in his affections she had become. From the first minute the electrifying idea of her possible relationship had come to him, he had (in spite of his determination to the contrary) reveled in pictures of what his home would be with a daughter like that to love—and to love him. Helen, too, was in the pictures—true, a vague, shadowy Helen, yet a Helen idealized and glorified by the remorseful repentance born of a bunch of worn little diaries. Then to have the beautiful vision shattered by one word from the girl's own lips—and just when he had attained the pinnacle of joyous conviction that she was, indeed, his little girl of the long ago—it seemed as though he could not bear it.
And, most anguishing of all, there was no chance that there was a mistake. Even if the incongruity of her description of her father as applied to himself could be explained away, there was yet the insurmountable left. With his own ears he had heard her say that her father was dead—had been dead for many years. That settled it, of course. There could be no mistake about—death.
After the first stunning force of the disappointment, there came to Burke Denby the reaction—in the case of Burke Denby a characteristic reaction. It became evident, to some extent, the very next day. For the first time in weeks he did not work with his secretary over the cataloguing at all during the day. He dictated his letters, then left at once for his office at the Works. At luncheon he relapsed into his old stern silence; and in the afternoon, beyond giving a few crisp directions, he showed no interest in Betty's work, absenting himself most of the time from the room.
Yet not in the least was all this consciously planned on his part. He felt simply an aversion to being with this girl. Even the sight of her bright head bent over her work gave him a pang, the sound of her voice brought bitterness. Above all, he dreaded a glance from her eyes—Helen's eyes, that had lured him for a brief twenty-four hours into a fool's paradise of thinking they might, indeed, be—Helen's eyes.
Burke was grievously disappointed, ashamed, and angry; and being accustomed always to acting exactly as he felt, he acted now—as he felt. He was grievously disappointed that his brief dream of a daughter in his home should have come to naught. He was ashamed that he should have allowed himself to be deluded into such a dream, and angry that the thing had so stirred him—that he could be so stirred by the failure of so absurd and preposterous a supposition to materialize into fact.
As the days passed, matters became worse rather than better. Added to his disappointment and chagrin there came to be an unreasoning wrath that this girl was not his daughter, together with a rebellion at his lonely life, and an overmastering self-pity that he should be so abused of Fate. It was then that he began systematically to avoid, so far as was possible, being with the girl at all, save for the necessary dictation and instructions. This was the more easily accomplished, as the cataloguing now had almost arrived at the stage where it was a mere matter of copying and tabulating the mass of material already carefully numbered to correspond with the equally carefully numbered curios in the cabinets.
In spite of it all, however, Burke Denby knew, in his heart, that he was becoming more and more fond of this young girl, more and more interested in her welfare, more and more restless and dissatisfied when not in her presence, more and more poignantly longing to make her his daughter by adoption, now that it was settled beyond question that she was not his by the ties of flesh and blood. Outwardly, however, he remained the stern, unsmiling man, silent, morose, and anything but delightful as a daily companion.
To Betty he had become the unsolvable enigma. That this most unhappy change should have been brought about by the breaking of the Venetian Tear Vase, she could not believe—valuable and highly treasured as it was; yet, as she looked back, thechange seemed to have dated from the moment of the vase's shattering on the library floor, the day after Christmas.
At first she had supposed the man's sudden reversion to gloom and silence was a mere whim of the mind or a passing distemper of the body. But when day after day brought no light to his eye, no smile to his lip, no elasticity to his step, she became seriously disturbed, particularly as she could not help noticing that he no longer worked with her; that he no longer, in fact, seemed to want to remain in the library even to hear her read to him.
She was sorely troubled. Not only did she miss the pleasure and stimulus of his presence and interest in the work, but she feared lest in some way she had disappointed or offended him. She began to question herself and to examine critically her work.
She could find nothing. Her work had been well done. She knew that. There was absolutely no excuse for this sudden taciturn aloofness on his part. After all, it was probably nothing more than what might be expected of him—a going back to his usual self. Without doubt the strange thing was, not that he was stern and silent and morose now, but that, for a brief golden period, he had come out of his shell and acted like a human being. Doubtless it was under the sway of his interest in his curios, and his first delight at seeing them being brought into something like order, that he had, for a moment, as it were, stirred into something really human. Andhis going back to his original sour unpleasantness now was merely a reversion to first principles.
That it should be so vexed Betty not a little.
And when they were having such a good time! Surely, for a man thatcouldbe so altogether charming and delightful to be habitually so extremely undesirable and disagreeable was most exasperating. And he had been such good company! How kind he had been, too, when she had told him so much of her own life and home! How interested he had shown himself to be in every little detail, just as if he really cared. And now—
With a tense biting of her lip Betty reproached herself bitterly for being so free to tell of her own small affairs. She ought to have known that any interest a man like that could show was bound to be superficial and insincere. What a pity she should lose, for once, her reserve! Well, at least she had learned her lesson. Never again would she be guilty of making a confidant of Mr. Burke Denby, no matter how suave and human-like he might elect to become for some other brief week in the future!
To her mother Betty said very little of all this. True, at the first, in her surprise at the remarkable change in her employer's attitude, she had told her mother of his reversion to gloom and sternness; but it had seemed to worry and disturb her mother so much that Betty had stopped at once. And always since then she had avoided speaking of his continued disagreeableness, and skillfully evaded answering pertinentquestions. She told herself that she realized, of course, it was because her mother was so fearful that something would happen that this fine position, with the generous pay, should be lost. Dear mother—who thought she was hiding so shrewdly the fact of how poor they were!
There was something else that Betty did not tell her mother, also, and that was of her first peculiar and annoying experience with the woman at the newsstand at the station. It was about two weeks after Christmas that Betty had first seen the woman. Mr. Denby had asked her to go around by the station on her way home and purchase for him the December issue of "Research." He said it was not a very popular magazine, and that the woman was one of the few agents in town who kept it for sale. There was an article on Babylonian tablets in the December number, and he wished to see it.
The station was not very far from her home, and Betty was glad to do the errand, of course; but when she arrived at the newsstand she found a most offensive person who annoyed her with questions—a large woman with unpleasantly prominent eyes and a wart on her chin.
"Yes, Miss, I've got the magazine right here," she said with alacrity, in reply to Betty's request. "But, say, hain't I seen you before somewheres?"
Betty shook her head.
"I don't think so," she smiled. "At least, I do not remember seeing you anywhere."
"Well, don't you come here often, to the station, or somethin'?" persisted the woman.
"No, I have never been here before—except the day I arrived in town last September."
"H-m; funny!" frowned the woman musingly. "I'm a great case fur faces, an' I don't very often make a mistake. I could swear I'd seen you somewheres."
Betty smiled and shook her head again, as she turned away with her magazine.
Twice after that Mr. Denby had sent her to this same newsstand for a desired periodical; and on both occasions the woman had been cheerfully insistent in her questions, and in her reiterations that somewhere she certainly had seen her, as she never made mistakes in faces.
"An' yer workin' fur Burke Denby on the hill, ain't ye?" she asked at last.
Betty colored.
"I am working for Mr. Denby—yes."
"H-m; like him?"
"If you'll give me my change, please," requested Betty then, the flush deepening on her cheeks. "I am in some haste."
The woman laughed none too pleasantly.
"You don't want ter answer, an' I ain't sayin' I wonder," she chuckled. "He's a queer bug, an' no mistake, an' I don't wonder ye don't like him."
"On the contrary, I like him very much," flashed Betty, hurriedly catching up her magazine, and almostsnatching the coins from the woman's hand, in her haste to be away.
Betty had not told her mother of these encounters. More and more plainly Betty was seeing how keenly averse to meeting people her mother was, and how evasive she was in her answers to the questions the market-men sometimes put to her. Instinctively Betty felt that these questions of the newsstand woman would distress her mother very much; so Betty kept them carefully to herself.
The conviction that her mother was fearful of meeting old friends in Dalton was growing on Betty these days, and it disturbed her greatly. Moreover she did not like a certain growing restless nervousness in her mother's manner, nor did she like the increasing pallor of her mother's cheek. Something, somewhere, was wrong. Of this Betty became more and more strongly convinced. Nor did a little episode that took place late in January tend to weaken this belief.
They had gone to market—Betty and her mother. Lured by an attractive "ad," they had gone farther from home than usual, and were in a store not often visited by them. They had given their order and turned to go, when suddenly Betty found herself whisked about by her mother's frantic clutch on her arm and led swiftly quite across the store to the opposite door. There, still impelled by that unyielding clutch on her arm, she found herself dodging in and out of the throngs of customers on their wayto the street outside. Even there their pace did not slacken until they were well around the corner of the block.
"Why, mother," panted Betty then, laughing, "I should think you were running away from all the plagues of Egypt."
"I—I was—worse than the plagues of Egypt," laughed her mother, a bit hysterically.
"Why, mother!" cried Betty, growing suddenly alert and anxious.
"There, there, dear, it was nothing. Never mind!" declared her mother. But even as she spoke she looked back fearfully over her shoulder.
"But, mother, whatwasit?"
"Nothing. Just a—a woman I didn't want to see. I used to know her years ago, and she was—such a talker! We wouldn't have got home to-night."
"But we shan't now—if we keep on this way," laughed Betty uneasily, her troubled eyes on her mother's face. "We're going in quite the opposite direction from home."
"Dear, dear, so we are! We must have turned the wrong way when we came out from the store."
"Yes, we—did," agreed Betty. Her words were light—but the troubled look had not left her eyes.
It was on a gray morning early in February that Betty found her employer pacing the library from end to end like the proverbial caged lion. When he turned and spoke, she was startled at the look on his face—a worn, haggard look that told of sleeplessness—and of something else that she could not name.
He ignored her conventional morning greeting.
"Miss Darling, I want to speak to you."
"Yes, Mr. Denby."
"Will you come here to live—as my daughter?"
"Will I—what?" The amazement in Betty's face was obviously genuine.
"You are surprised, of course; and no wonder. I didn't exactly what you call 'break it gently,' did I? And I forgot that you haven't been thinking of this thing every minute for the last—er—month, as I have. Won't you sit down, please." With an abrupt gesture he motioned her to a chair, and dropped into one himself. "I can't, of course, beat about the bush now. I want you to come here to this house and be a daughter to me. Will you?"
"But,Mr. Denby!"
"'This is so sudden!' Yes, I know," smiled the man grimly. "That's what your face says, and nowonder. It may seem sudden to you—but it is not at all so to me. Believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought. I have debated it—longer than you can guess. And let me tell you at once that of course I want your mother to come, too. That will set your mind at rest on that point."
"But I—I don't think yet that I—I quite understand," faltered the girl.
"In what way?"
"I can't understand yet why—why you want me. You see, I—I have thought lately that—that you positively disliked me, Mr. Denby." Her chin came up with the little determined lift so like her mother.
With a jerk Burke Denby got to his feet and resumed his nervous stride up and down the room.
"My child,"—he turned squarely about and faced her,—"I want you. I need you. This house has become nothing but a dreary old pile of horror to me. You, by some sweet necromancy of your own, have contrived to make the sun shine into its windows. It's the first time for years that there has been any sun—for me. But when you go, the sun goes. That's why I want you here all the time. Will you come? Of course, you understand I mean adoption—legally. But I don't want to dwell on that part. I want you towantto come. I want you to be happy here. Won't you come?"
Betty drew in her breath tremulously. For a long minute her gaze searched the man's face.
"Well, Miss Betty?" There was a confident smile in his eyes. He had the air of a man who has made a certain somewhat dreaded move, but who has no doubt as to the outcome.
"I'm afraid I—can't, Mr. Denby."
"You—can't!"
Betty, in spite of her very real and serious concern and anxiety, almost laughed at the absolute amazement on the man's face.
"No, Mr. Denby."
"May I ask why?" There was the chill of ice in his voice.
Again Betty felt the almost hysterical desire to laugh. Still her face was very grave.
"You— I— In the end you would not want me, Mr. Denby," she faltered, "because I—I should not be—happy here."
"May I ask why—that?"
There was no answer.
"Miss Darling, why wouldn't you be happy here?"
Genuine distress came into Betty's face.
"I would rather not say, Mr. Denby."
"But I prefer that you should."
"I can't. You would think me—impertinent."
"Not if I tell you to say it, Miss Betty. Why can't you be happy here? You know very well that you would have everything that money could buy."
"But what I want is something—money can't buy."
"What do you mean?"
No reply.
"Miss Darling, what do you mean?"
With a sudden fierce recklessness the girl turned and faced him.
"I meanthat—just that—what you did now, and a minute ago. The way you have of—of expecting everybody and everything to bend to your will and wishes. Oh, I know, it's silly and horrible and everything for me to say this. But youmademe do it. I told you it was impertinent! Don't you see? I'd have to have love and laughter and sympathy and interest and—and all that around me. Icouldn'tbe happy here. This house is like a tomb, and you—sometimes you are jolly and kind and—andfine. But I never knowhowyou're going to be. And I'd die if I had to worry and fret and fear all the time how youweregoing to be! Mr. Denby, I—I couldn't live in such a place, and mother couldn't either. And I— Oh, what have I said? But you made me do it, you made me do it!"
For one long minute there was utter silence in the room. Burke Denby, at the library table, sat motionless, his hand shading his eyes. Betty, in her chair, wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Her eyes were frightened—but her chin was high.
Suddenly he stirred. His hand no longer shaded his face. Betty, to her amazement, saw that his lips were smiling, though his eyes, she knew, were moist.
"Betty, my dear child, I thought before that I wanted you. I know now I'vegotto have you."
Betty, as if the smile were contagious, found her own lips twitching.
"What—do you mean?"
"I mean that your fearless little tirade was just what I needed, my dear. Ihaveexpected everything and everybody to bend to my will and wishes. I suspect that's what's been the matter, too, all the way up. I thought once, long ago, I'd learned my lesson. But it seems I haven't. Here I am up to the same old tricks again. Will you come and—er—train me, Betty? I will promise to be very docile."
Betty did laugh this time—and the tension snapped. "Train"—the very word with which she had shocked her mother weeks before!
"Seriously, my dear,"—the man's face was very grave now,—"I want you to talk this thing over with your mother. I am a lonely old man—yes, old, in spite of the fact that I'm barely forty—I feel sixty! I want you, and I need you, and—notwithstanding your unflattering opinion of me, just expressed—I believe I can make you happy, and your mother, too. She shall have every comfort, and you shall have love and laughter and sympathy and interest, I promise you. Now, isn't your heart softening just a wee bit?Won'tyou come?"
"Why, of course, I—appreciate your kindness, Mr. Denby, and"—Betty drew a tremulous breath and looked wistfully into the man's pleading eyes—"it would be lovely for—mother, wouldn't it? She wouldn't have to worry any more, or—or—"
Burke Denby lifted an imperative hand. His face lighted. He sprang to his feet and spoke with boyish enthusiasm.
"The very thing! Miss Darling, I want you to go home and bring your mother back to luncheon with you. Never mind the work," he went on, as he saw her quick glance toward his desk. "I don't want to work. I couldn't—this morning. And I don't want you to. I want to see your mother. I want to tell her—many things—of myself. I want her to see me, and see if she thinks she could give you to me as a daughter, and yet not lose you herself, but come here with you to live."
"But I—I could tell her this to-night," stammered Betty, knowing still that, in spite of herself, she was being swept quite off her feet by the extraordinary enthusiasm of the eager man before her.
"I don't want to wait till to-night. I want to see her now. Besides,"—he cocked his head whimsically with the confident air of one who knows his point is gained,—"I want a magazine, and I forgot to ask you to get it for me last night. I want the February 'Research.' So we'll just let it go that I'm sending you to the station newsstand for that. Incidentally, you may come back around by your mother's place and bring her with you. There, now surely you won't object to—to running an errand for me!" he finished triumphantly.
"No, I surely can't object to—to running an errand for you," laughed Betty, as she rose to herfeet, a pretty color in her face. "And I—I'll try to bring mother."
It was in a tumult of excitement and indecision that Betty hurried down the long Denby walk that February morning. What would her mother say? How would she take it? Would she consent? Would she consent even to go to luncheon—she who so seldom went anywhere? It was a wonderful thing—this proposal of Mr. Denby's. It meant, of course,—everything, if they accepted it, a complete metamorphosis of their whole lives and future. It could not help meaning that. But would they be happy there? Could they be happy with a man like Mr. Denby? To be sure, he said he would be willing to be—trained. (Betty's face dimpled into a broad smile somewhat to the mystification of the man she chanced to be meeting at the moment.) But would he be really kind and lovable like this all the time? He had been delightful once before—for a few days. What guaranty had they that he would not again, at the first provocation, fall back into his old glum unbearableness?
But what would her mother say? Well, she would soon know. She would get the magazine, then hurry home—and find out.
It was between trains at the station, and the waiting-room was deserted. Betty hurriedly told the newsstand woman what she wanted, and tried to assume a forbidding aspect that would discourage questions. But the woman made no move to get themagazine. She did not seem even to have heard the request. Instead she leaned over the counter and caught Betty's arm in a vise-like grip. Her face was alight with joyous excitement.
"Well, I am glad to see you! I've been watchin' ev'ry day fur you. What did I tell ye?NowI guess you'll say I know when I've seen a face before!NowI know who you are. I see you with your mother at Martin's grocery last Sat'day night, and I tried ter get to ye, but I lost ye in the crowd. I seeyoufirst, then I see her, and I knew then in a minute who you was, and why I'd thought I'd seen ye somewheres. I hadn't—not since you was a kid, though; but I knew yer mother, an' you've got her eyes. You're Helen Denby's daughter. My, but I'm glad ter see ye!"
Betty, plainly distressed, had been attempting to pull her arm away from the woman's grasp; but at the name a look of relief crossed her face.
"You are quite mistaken, madam," she said coldly. "My mother's name is not Helen Denby."
"But I see her myself with my own eyes, child! Of course she's older lookin', but I'd swear on my dyin' bed 'twas her. Ain't you Dorothy Elizabeth?"
Betty's eyes flew wide open.
"You—know—my—name?"
"There! I knew 'twas," triumphed the woman. "An' ter think of you comin' back an' workin' fur yer father like this, an'—"
"My—what?"
It was the woman's turn to open wide eyes of amazement.
"Do you mean to say you don't know Burke Denby is your father?"
"But he isn't my father! My father is dead!"
"Who said so?"
"Why, mother—that is—I mean—she never said— What do you mean? He can't be my father. My mother's name is Helen Darling!" Betty was making no effort to get away now. She was, indeed, clutching the woman's arm with her free hand.
The woman scowled and stared. Suddenly her face cleared.
"My Jiminy! so that's her game! She's keepin' it from ye, I bet ye," she cried excitedly.
"Keeping it from me! Keeping what from me? What are you talking about?" Betty's face had paled. The vague questions and half-formed fears regarding her mother's actions for the past few months seemed suddenly to be taking horrible shape and definiteness.
"Sakes alive! Do you mean ter say that you don't know that Burke Denby is your father, an' that he give your mother the go-by when you was a kid, an' she lit out with you an' hain't been heard of since?"
"No, no, it can't be—it can't be! My father was good and fine, and—"
"Rats! Did she stuff ye ter that, too? I tell ye'tisso. Say, look a-here! Wa'n't you down ter Martin's grocery last Sat'day night at nine o'clock?"
"Y-yes."
"Well, wa'n't you there with yer mother?"
"Y-yes." A power entirely outside of herself seemed to force the answers from Betty's lips.
"Well, I see ye. You was tergether, talkin' to the big fat man with the red nose. I started towards ye, but I lost ye in the crowd."
Betty's face had grown gray-white. She remembered now. That was the night her mother had run away from—something.
"But I knew her," nodded the woman. "I knew she was Helen Denby."
"But maybe you were—mistaken."
"Mistaken? Me? Not much! I don't furgit faces. You ask yer mother if she don't remember Mis' Cobb. Didn't I live right on the same floor with her fur months? Hain't yer mother ever told ye she lived here long ago?"
Betty nodded dumbly, miserably.
"Well, I lived next to her, and I knew the whole thing—how she got the letter tellin' her ter go, an' the money Burke Denby sent her—"
"Letter! Money! You mean he wrote her to—go—away? Hepaidher?" The girl had become suddenly galvanized into blazing anger.
"Sure! That's what I'm tellin' ye. An' yer mother went. I tried ter stop her. I told her ter go straight up ter them Denbys an' demand her rights—an'yourrights. But she wouldn't. She hadn't a mite o' spunk. Just because he was ashamed of her she—"
"Ashamed of her!Ashamedof my mother!"—if but Helen Denby could have seen the flash in Betty's eyes!
"Sure! She wa'n't so tony, an' her folks wa'n't grand like his, ye know. That's why old Denby objected ter the marriage in the first place. But, say, didn't you know any of this I'm tellin' ye? Jiminy! but it does seem queer ter be tellin' ye yer own family secrets like this—an' you here workin' in his very home, an' not knowin' it, too. If that ain't the limit—like a regular story-book! Now, I ain't never one ter butt in where 'tain't none of my affairs, but I've got ter say this. You're a Denby, an' ought ter have some spunk; an' if I was you I'd brace right up an'— Here, don't ye want yer magazine? What are ye goin' ter do?"
But the girl was already halfway across the waiting-room.
If Betty's thoughts and emotions had been in a tumult on the way to the station, they were in a veritable chaos on the return trip. She did not go home. She turned her steps toward the Denby Mansion; and because she knew she could not possibly sit still, she walked all the way.
So this was the meaning of it—the black veil daytimes, the walks only at night, the nervous restlessness, the unhappiness. Her motherhadhad something to conceal, something to fear. Poor mother—dear mother—how she must have suffered!
But why,whyhad she come back here and puther into that man's home? And why had she told her always how fine and noble and splendid her father was. Fine! Noble! Splendid, indeed! Still, it was like mother,—dear mother,—always so sweet and gentle, always seeing the good in everything and everybody! But why had she put her there—in that man's house? How could she have done it?
And Burke Denby himself—did he know? Did he suspect that she was his daughter? Adopt her, indeed! Wasthatthe way he thought he could pay her mother back for all those years? And the grief and the hurt and the mortification—where did they come in? Ashamed of her!Ashamed of her, indeed!Why, her little finger was as much finer and nobler and— But just wait till she saw him, that was all!
Like the overwrought, half-beside-herself young hurricane of wrathfulness that she was, Betty burst into the library at Denby House a few minutes later.
The very sight of her face brought the man to his feet.
"Why, Betty, what's the matter? Where's your mother? Couldn't she come? What is the matter?"
"Come? No, she didn't come. She'll never come—never!"
Before the blazing wrath in the young eyes the man fell back limply.
"Why, Betty, didn't you tell her—"
"I've told her nothing. I haven't seen her," cut in the girl crisply. "But I've seen somebody else. I know now—everything!"
From sheer stupefaction the man laughed.
"Aren't we getting a little—theatrical, my child?" he murmured mildly.
"You needn't call me that. I refuse to recognize the relationship," she flamed. "Perhaps we are getting theatrical—that woman said it was like a story-book. And perhaps you thought you could wipe it all out by adopting me. Adopting me, indeed! As if I'd let you! I can tell you it isn't going toendlike a story-book, with father and mother and daughter—'and they all lived happily ever after'—because I won't let it!"
"What do you mean by that?" The man's face had grown suddenly very white.
Betty fixed searching, accusing eyes on his countenance.
"Are you trying to make me think you don't know I'm your daughter; that—"
"Betty! Are you really, really—my little Betty?"
At the joyous cry and the eagerly outstretched arms Betty shrank back.
"Then youdidn'tknow—that?"
"No, no! Oh, Betty, Betty, is it true? Then it'll all be right now. Oh, Betty, I'm so glad," he choked. "My little girl! Won't you—come to me?"
She shook her head and retreated still farther out of his reach. Her eyes still blazed angrily.
"Betty, dear, hear me! I don't know— I don't understand. It's all too wonderful—to have it come—now. Once, for a little minute, the wildthought came to me that you might be. But, Betty, you yourself told me your father was—dead!"
"And so he is—to me," sobbed Betty. "You aren't my father. My father was good and true and noble and—you—"
"And your mothertoldyou that?" breathed the man, brokenly. "Betty, I—I— Where is she? Is she there—at home—now? I want to—see her!"
"I shan't let you see her." Betty had blazed again into unreasoning wrath. "You don't deserve it. You told her you were ashamed of her.Ashamed of her!And she's the best and the loveliest and dearest mother in the world! She's as much above and beyond anything you—you—Whyshe let me come to you I don't know. I can't think why she did it. But now I—I—"
"Betty, if you'll only let me explain—"
But the great hall door had banged shut. Betty had gone.
Betty took a car to her own home. She was too weak and spent to walk.
It was a very white, shaken Betty that climbed the stairs to the little apartment a short time later.
"Why, Betty, darling!" exclaimed her mother, hurrying forward. "You are ill! Are you ill?"
With utter weariness Betty dropped into a chair.
"Mother, why didn't you tell me?" she asked dully, heartbrokenly. "Why did you let me come here and go to that house day after day and not know—anything?"
"Why, what—what do you mean?" All the color had drained from Helen Denby's face.
"Did you ever know a Mrs. Cobb?"
"That woman! Betty, she hasn't—has she been—talking—to you?"
Betty nodded wearily.
"Yes, she's been talking to me, and— Oh, mother, mother,whydid you come here—now?" cried Betty, springing to her feet in sudden frenzy again. "How could you let me go there? And only to-day—this morning, he told me he wanted to adopt me! And you—he was going to have us both there—to live. He said he was so lonely, and that I—I made the sun shine for the first time for years. And afterwards, when I found outwhohe was, I thought he meant it as a salve to heal all the unhappiness he'd caused you. I thought he was trying topay; and I told him—"
"Youtoldhim! You mean you've seen him since—Mrs. Cobb?"
"Yes. I went back. I told him—"
"Oh, Betty, Betty, what are you saying?" moaned her mother. "What have you done? You didn't tell himthatway!"
"Indeed I did! I told him I knew—everything now; and that he needn't think he could wipe it out. And he wanted to see you, and I said he couldn't. I—"
An electric bell pealed sharply through the tiny apartment.
"Mother, that's he! I know it's he! Mother, don't let him in," implored Betty. But her mother already was in the hall.
Betty, frightened, despairing, and angry, turned her back and walked to the window. She heard the man's quick cry and the woman's sobbing answer. She heard the broken, incoherent sentences with which the man and the woman attempted to crowd into one brief delirious minute all the long years of heartache and absence. She heard the pleading, the heart-hunger, the final rapturous bliss that vibrated through every tone and word. But she did not turn. She did not turn even when some minutes later her father's voice, low, unsteady, but infinitely tender, reached her ears.
"Betty, your mother has forgiven me. Can't—you?"
There was no answer.
"Betty, dear, he means—we've forgiven each other, and—ifIam happy, can't you be?" begged Betty's mother, tremulously.
Still no answer.
"Betty," began the woman again pleadingly.
But the man interposed, a little sadly:—
"Don't urge her, Helen. After all, I deserve everything she can say, or do."
"But she doesn't understand," faltered Helen.
The man shook his head. A wistful smile was on his lips.
"No, she doesn't—understand," he said. "It'sa long road to—understanding, dear. You and I have found it so."
"Yes, I know." Helen's voice was very low.
"And there are sticks and stones and numberless twigs to trip one's feet," went on the man softly. "And there are valleys of despair and mountains of doubt to be encountered—and Betty has come only a little bit of the way. Betty is young."
"But"—it was Helen's tremulous voice—"it's on the mountain-tops that—that we ought to be able to see the end of the journey, you know."
"Yes; but there are all those guideboards, remember," said the man, "and Betty hasn't come to the guideboards yet—regret—remorse—forgiveness—patience, and—atonement."
There was a sudden movement at the window. Then Betty, misty-eyed, stood before them.
"I know I am—on the mountain of doubt now, but"—she paused, her gaze going from one to the other of the wondrously glorified faces before her—"I'll try so hard to see—the end of the journey," she faltered.
"Betty!" sobbed two adoring voices, as loving arms enfolded her.